


Lessons in Humility

by playout



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Fluff, HP: EWE, Hogwarts, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, POV Alternating, Parenthetical asides like whoa, Professors, Redemption, Run-On Sentences, Secrets, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:58:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 49
Words: 86,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3174352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playout/pseuds/playout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the dissolution of his marriage and a good bit of soul-searching, Harry returns to Hogwarts as the new Defense teacher. Go figure, it happens to be the same year Draco takes over the role of Potions Master. Neither man is happy about this turn of events. Will they be able to set aside their differences and learn a thing or two about trust and humility on the way? (Spoiler Alert: Yes. Very much so.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is shameless fluff with a dose of smut and a lot of heart. It's good for the soul ;) Rated E for later chapters.

"Do I make myself _clear_?" The Headmistress's tone brooked no argument. Harry squirmed under her disapproving stare like a ruddy first year. Malfoy, damn him, looked cool and composed in the high backed chair when Harry snuck a surreptitious glance in his direction. If it weren't for the trickle of blood in the corner of his mouth, uncharacteristically disheveled state of his robes, and bit of white blonde hair sticking up in the back (which Harry had used for leverage when pounding the git's head into the floor), one would have no clue he'd been brawling in the corridor just outside of the Great Hall not fifteen minutes earlier. 

"Grown men acting like _children_!" Minerva muttered to herself. Harry wasn't exactly proud of his actions, especially not after the Headmistress's castigatory tirade, but it had felt bloody good to knock the smug look of superiority off Malfoy's face. Even better for the brief, sweet moment his grey eyes widened in shock and the dawning realization Harry's fist was about to connect with his pointy chin. Harry flexed his fingers and winced. He wondered if it would be worth a scolding from Poppy to see about getting his bruised knuckles healed. Probably not. 

"You are dismissed." Minerva eyed them both. "Might I suggest turning your attentions to your classes rather than this ridiculous feud you still have not managed to outgrow." 

Harry considered the wisdom of quipping _I'll outgrow it when he does_. He bit his tongue instead and grimaced at the fresh taste of copper that flooded his mouth.That wound had only just closed. Fucking Malfoy. 

Harry gingerly rose from the chair. His ribs throbbed from a vicious elbow Malfoy had thrown and his ankle twinged in protest, having been stomped by an expensive Italian loafer. Unsurprisingly, Malfoy was a dirty fighter, even willing to bite and scratch when Harry carelessly let any of his tender flesh in range of the berk's perfect white teeth or regularly manicured nails (the Slytherin was a study in contradictions).To be fair, Harry had cold cocked him. But Malfoy had been taunting Harry about his divorce. In front of students, no less. He was only willing to own so much culpability. 

"Headmistress." Malfoy nodded in her direction and strode purposefully out of the room without having once acknowledged Harry's presence. 

Harry waited a beat before grousing, "I still don't know why you allow him around children." 

"I still don't know why you can't manage to put this petty schoolyard rivalry behind you," Minerva replied, lips thinned in a reproachful frown. "And may I remind you, I am Headmistress of this school. Matters of staffing are entirely my purview, Mr. Potter." 

Harry flinched. Minerva only referred to him by his surname when she was really angry. 

"I'm sorry we fought in front of students," he offered, scuffing the toe of his trainer against the flagstone beneath his feet and avoiding eye contact. Harry heard the headmistress sigh. 

"I hope that one day you will be sorry you fought at all, Harry," she replied, sounding disappointed and weary. Harry glanced up and found himself pinned by a steady gaze. "Draco has as much right to be here as you. He has paid his dues to society, he is good with the children, and he is an excellent Potions Master." 

Harry thought it was debatable that Malfoy was actually _good_ with the children but even he had to admit the git seemed a fair sight better in the position than his predecessors. Incomprehensible as it was to Harry, the students actually appeared to be flourishing under Malfoy's tutelage. Just yesterday Harry had overheard a few of his Ravenclaw sixth years gushing about Malfoy's unmitigated superiority to Slughorn. He shuddered to remember the girls' assertion that Malfoy's "gorgeous eyes" and "perfect arse" added to the appeal and that the way he handled a stirring rod was "practically criminal." 

Harry gave himself a mental shake and returned his attention to the Headmistress. "I know, Minerva. And I am sorry. I'll try to be better. He just has a way of getting under my skin." 

Harry caught the flash of an inscrutable expression behind Minerva's spectacles before she gave him a small smile. 

"I know, Harry." 


	2. Chapter 2

Draco headed straight for his rooms, utilizing secret passageways and disused corridors as much as possible to avoid being seen. His _fistfight_ had been public enough.

He groaned.

 _What was he thinking? What would_ Mother _say?_

She would be mortified, undoubtedly. Draco would have to craft a missive carefully and quickly. Salazar, there would be hell to pay if she heard about the incident from someone else first.

Draco was supposed to be restoring the Malfoy name. This appointment was exactly the sort of break he had been hoping for when he dedicated himself to his potions studies, realizing good opportunities would be few and far between for those who had been on the wrong side of the war. McGonagall was the one who encouraged him to apply for his Mastery in the first place and then offered him the position when Slughorn announced his retirement.

Public outcry had been expected, but the sheer volume and duration less so. Howlers still regularly made their way into Draco's rooms, the Headmistress's office, and the Great Hall, although McGonagall had instructed the house-elves to intercept as many as possible to minimize the disruption of learning. Parents threatened to pull their children from the school and several had made good on it. The Prophet had dredged up every last one of Draco's childhood mistakes, fictional as well as factual, and made them front page news. Again.

Draco had considered giving up and retreating to the Manor, tail between his legs, resigned to try starting over on the Continent. But McGonagall, bless her sturdy Scottish heart, would hear none of it. "The position of Hogwarts' Potions Master is one of the most coveted and well respected in the entire Wizarding world," she had argued. "Is your ambition so small you would walk away from such an honor because of a few paltry death threats?"

Aiming for his pride was a low blow, but surprisingly effective.

Against all odds, McGonagall managed to convince the Board of Governors to support her selection of Draco for the appointment. She gave an impassioned speech on the front steps of the school--which, she reminded the audience, she herself had defended with _Piertotem_ _Locomotor_ in the final battle, lest anyone forget her sworn allegiance to Hogwarts or its submission to her as Headmistress--in which she pleaded for reconciliation and redemption in the wake of the Second Wizarding War. Some had been won over completely. Most were willing, albeit grudgingly, to accept Draco's appointment on a trial basis.

In light of that fact, his every deed was being closely monitored; one misstep and his tenure would swiftly be cut short. Engaging in fisticuffs with the Savior of the Wizarding World in the middle of a hallway full of witnesses was definitely not on.

Finally reaching the relative safety of his rooms in the dungeons, Draco quickly let himself in and secured the door behind him with a sturdy locking and silencing spell. He was in no mood for interruptions.

He made his way to the full length mirror--strategically placed in the sitting room for final inspection of his appearance before exiting the rooms--and surveyed the damage. Dried blood flaked at the corner of his mouth where a vibrant bruise was beginning to bloom. He would need to apply arnica root paste soon to remove it. If he didn't have any in his stores, he'd have to brew it. Under no circumstances would he be paying a visit to Madam Pomfrey and subjecting himself to her clucking, sighing, and lecturing. He'd had quite enough of that from McGonagall already.

Draco still couldn't believe Potter had punched him like some kind of feral muggle. Maybe it was because McGonagall had made them promise not to hex one another after the incident on the quidditch pitch (also not one of Draco's finer moments, but that list was long enough there was little point in cataloging them all) or maybe Scarhead really had gone rabid. The badger's nest he called hair did little to disabuse Draco of the notion.

Draco straightened his robes, noting at least two buttons that would need replacing, and smoothed his hair with a well-practiced spell. He squared his shoulders and eyed himself critically. Here in his well appointed sitting room, where bronze lamps cast a warm glow onto every polished surface and a wealth of rare and interesting books lined the shelves, he looked the part of a refined, respectable professor (excepting the blood, bruise, and missing buttons). Merlin only knew why Potter made him behave like an uncivilized guttersnipe.

Seeing the gaggle of students outside the Great Hall after that morning's breakfast fawning over the git like he was some kind of god among men had stirred up ugly, bitter feelings that Draco had worked hard to bury these past few years. It was petty and vindictive to insinuate Potter's marriage had failed due to his inability to satisfy the Weaselette, but it had been an unexpected thrill to watch the angry, humiliated flush climb Potter's neck. It seemed the barb may have hit close to home.

Draco hadn't had long to enjoy that knowledge, however, because Potter had immediately set upon him like a savage from the bush. Draco had had no choice but to respond in kind. He wasn't sure how much time elapsed from the initial blow to the moment the fight was summarily ended by two hastily cast _Petrificus_ _Totalus_ on the part of Professors Longbottom and Flitwick (and wasn't _that_ a bitter pill to swallow) but mere moments later Draco was installed in the Headmistress's office fearing the worst.

Thankfully McGonagall was the forgiving sort. But Draco knew he would not be given another chance. Too many people were out for Malfoy blood. He would have to get along with Potter somehow.

Merlin, that was easier said than done.


	3. Chapter 3

Three days later, while Harry was setting up training dummies in the large, airy classroom his N.E.W.T. level students used to practice the more volatile spells, he was startled by the arrival of Malfoy's gigantic (and frankly terrifying) eagle owl. Harry's surprise was twofold--the sudden appearance of the bird was understandably jarring, but he was also shocked that Malfoy reneged on his apparent commitment to pretend Harry simply didn't exist. It had been working rather well for both of them.

The owl glared menacingly from its perch on the shoulder of one of the dummies. Seeing the deep indentations its ferocious-looking talons left in the dummy's fabric, Harry was grateful the bird hadn't considered him a viable landing place.

Unwilling to risk a bite from the equally sharp beak, Harry rooted around in his pockets for a peace offering since he wasn't in the habit of carrying owl treats on his person. Fortunately he found a bit of toast leftover from breakfast. Hermione would be appalled to learn Harry still squirreled away food for later, but old habits die hard, even when one can be relatively sure of his next meal.

Harry held the toast out to the owl, which eyed it disdainfully before eventually accepting the treat from Harry's hand. Harry let out the breath he had been holding and swiftly untied the scroll from the owl's leg, keeping one eye on the bird's various weapons in case it decided the treat wasn't good enough after all. Harry idly wondered if Malfoy owls were selected based on their ability to look condescending or if that was a skill they were taught after the fact. Either way, this particular bird was quite good at it.

Harry went to the other side of the room to read the note, unwilling to stay in close proximity to the frightening creature. He unrolled the scroll and confirmed what he had already known--he would recognize Malfoy's precise, spiky handwriting anywhere. He'd spied it often enough during their school days trying to determine the Slytherin's nefarious plans. Unfortunately Malfoy had never made it quite so easy as to leave such plans written and out in the open. Truthfully, Harry wasn't sure why he had ever expected that would be the case, but Harry seldom showed good judgement where Malfoy was concerned.

Except that the git was up to something sixth year; Harry had been spot on with that one.

With a sense of foreboding, he turned his attention to the parchment.

_Professor Potter,_

_I apologize for my antagonism the other day. My behavior was out of line._

_I would like to propose a truce. I should hope that as adults we can put the unfortunate circumstances of the past behind us and conduct ourselves as professionals for the sake of our students and the esteemed institution that is Hogwarts._

_Sincerely, DM_

Huh.

That was...unexpected.


	4. Chapter 4

"So he's definitely up to something, right, 'Mione?"

Hermione looked thoughtful through the green flames of the floo. Harry wasn't always good at reading people's expressions in the fireplace but 'thoughtful' was a pretty safe bet where Hermione was concerned.

"I don't know, Harry," she began. "Maybe he really is sincere. It's long past time the two of you started acting like adults, at any rate."

Harry sorely missed Hermione most days during the school term, when their busy schedules made visits nearly impossible; but her sanctimonious nagging, not so much. He stuck out his tongue in protest.

"You do realize you're making my point, right?" she chided. "Why don't you try talking to him and find out what he has in mind for this truce?"

Harry groaned. He should have known Hermione would try to be _reasonable_.

"Do I _have_ to?" he whinged. "Besides, when in the 13 years we've known the prat have you ever heard him apologize? Admit it--it's bloody suspicious."

"At his trial, Harry," Hermione replied softly, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear.

Harry blanched. Hermione was right, of course. (She always was.) Malfoy at his trial was a very different person than the boy Harry had come to know and loathe in school. Months on the run, then living in a house full of deranged Death Eaters and their mad lord, and finally languishing in DMLE captivity awaiting sentencing had obviously taken their toll on him, physically as well as emotionally. And Harry would never forget the horrors his visions had shown him of Malfoy's cruel lessons at Voldemort's hands. He was sure Malfoy wouldn't either.

In the weeks immediately following Voldemort's defeat, Harry had floundered. Though he had elected to return to the world of the living when given the choice at King's Cross, he wasn't sure quite what that meant now that his main purpose for existence (at least to hear the Prophet speak) had been eliminated. He had attended all the Death Eaters' trials mostly because he needed the closure of seeing them through. Ron and Hermione had sat by his side at every one--Ron's sturdy bulk and Hermione's bushy hair and soft shoulders supporting him literally and figuratively through some of his darkest days.

His struggle paled in comparison to what Malfoy's must have been. Harry felt sick to his stomach just remembering how Malfoy had looked at his trial. His too-long hair hung in dull, limp strands. His face, sharp and angular on the best of days, was a gaunt parody of its former state--cheeks hollow, eyes sunken, haunted, and beset by deep shadows, mouth a barely there slash below his aquiline nose. His skin was nearly translucent with a tracery of blue veins showing through.

The worst, though, had been his entrance. Harry had doubted his own eyes (such as they are) when Malfoy had shuffled into the courtroom sandwiched between Auror escorts, eyes downcast and obscured behind his greasy fringe, dingy grey prisoner's robes hanging off his too-skinny frame. Gone was the confident swagger, the haughty sneer and pureblood posture, quicksilver eyes flashing with equal parts confidence and challenge. Instead, a tired, broken man, aged well beyond his 18 years, shambled into the courtroom to meet his fate.

Harry could resonate with that feeling.

Malfoy sat dumbly, hunched on the rough wooden chair through the reading of his crimes as though the outcome were a foregone conclusion in spite of the well-paid solicitor arguing passionately for leniency on the basis of the indiscretions of youth and Malfoy's fierce loyalty to his family. When offered the chance, he'd made no attempt to speak in his defense.

In what had been a surprise to everyone except his two best friends, Harry testified before the Wizengamot in favor of mercy for both Malfoy and his mother in deference to the life debts he owed each of them for lying to Voldemort on his behalf. (He had had no such compunction where Lucius was concerned and was glad the man was slated to live out the remainder of his days in Azkaban.) Malfoy's eyes had nearly bugged out of his head when Harry took the stand, amidst murmurs of dismay, giving Harry a queer delight at shocking the first sign of life out of his former nemesis.

When the official proceedings had come to an end, the Chief Warlock demanded a final statement from Malfoy before the deliberation of sentencing. Malfoy straightened somewhat in his seat and surveyed the fifty-some-odd witches and wizards ensconced high above him in their plum colored robes, faces grim and disapproving. His gaze stopped roving when it landed on Harry, who sat rigidly upright under the weight of it, feeling an unexpected jolt at the unwavering connection. Malfoy cleared his throat and spoke in a voice rough from disuse, uttering but one quiet, "I'm sorry," before returning his stare to the pockmarked table before him.

Merlin's beard, he seemed to mean it. Harry was shaken to his core.

Deliberation went quickly after that, aided considerably by the gracious and magnanimous testimony of the Savior (or so the headlines said). Malfoy, and his mother after him, had been sentenced to two years of house arrest and hefty fines for war reparations. Nothing the Malfoy vaults couldn't handle, of course. Public opinion on the lenient sentence was mixed--some thought every Death Eater and Voldemort sympathizer deserved the Dementor's Kiss, others lauded the new era of peace and forgiveness epitomized by The Boy Who Lived, and many simply didn't care, wanting instead to put the nasty business of the war behind them and get on with their lives.

Two months into Malfoy's house arrest, Harry paid a somewhat reluctant visit to Malfoy Manor in order to return the hawthorn wand...and maybe also to sate the burning curiosity he had developed about the apparent changes to Malfoy's character the war had wrought. He'd entertained some rather fanciful ideas about Malfoy turning over a new leaf and what that might mean for their rivalry.

Ron said he was obsessing again, tone heavy with implication, but he and Hermione had both listened indulgently to Harry's boundless speculation before reaching their limit and insisting Harry go talk to the man. The wand provided a convenient reason to do so.

Harry made the long trek up the Manor's seemingly endless drive--past strutting white peacocks and immaculate lawns, intricately carved fountains and lush gardens--anxiety and bile turning his stomach in knots.

Mounting the imposing steps and struggling to regain his breath, thinking the Malfoy ancestors had probably planned their absurd entryway to do that on purpose to make their visitors feel uncomposed and off-balance ( _pompous gits, the lot of them_ ), Harry rapped firmly on the dark, ornately carved wood of the enormous front door.

The man who answered was much more familiar to Harry than the one he had witnessed before the Wizengamot. In princely robes of pale blue silk with silver edging, Malfoy was once again every inch the noble scion of his line, if a bit underweight and sickly yet. Contemptuous sneer firmly in place and each strand of platinum hair exactly where it should be, he'd expectantly held out his hand without so much as a 'how do you do.'

Harry relinquished the wand with palms that were alarmingly sweaty and his hackles up. He could feel his pulse thrumming in his throat. A pleased expression raced across Malfoy's countenance when his fingers brushed the hawthorn wood but it was quickly replaced with the cold mask as he slipped the wand into his sleeve. "I trust you can see yourself out," he'd drawled after a beat.

Harry was flabbergasted. So much for his romantic notion of a Malfoy redeemed.

"Right," he snapped. "I'll do that." He turned to go, paused, and added over his shoulder as an afterthought, "Give my regards to your mother."

Malfoy had nodded curtly then shut the door in Harry's face.

Thus began and ended their inauspicious 'new start.'

...

"Harry?" Hermione prodded gently, shaking him from his brooding, concern writ large across her features.

"Yeah, 'Mione. Sorry. I was woolgathering," he grinned sheepishly.

"I noticed." Hermione's deadpan was a thing of legend.

"Well, anyway," Harry began, eager to get the conversation back on track and embarrassed to have been lost in his thoughts for so long, "I really don't think he's changed. You know what an utter prat he's been to me this year."

"I'm given to understand you both have made some poor choices where the other is concerned."

Harry was really beginning to regret this floo call. Whose side was she on anyway?

Hermione must have read his sour expression because she challenged, "What's the worst that could happen if you have a conversation with him?" in a tone of eminent rationality.

"It could be a trap," he reasoned.

Scary Hermione returned in all her blustering glory. "Harry James Potter," she scolded, eyebrows drawn into a furious scowl, "You defeated the most powerful dark wizard of our age when you were 17 years old _using the disarming charm_. You are a trained Auror _and_ Hogwarts' Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor. You mean to tell me that you're afraid to have a chat with a _fellow professor_ (a man Headmistress McGonagall trusts, might I add), because it _could_ be a trap? Even if you weren't perfectly well equipped to defend yourself--which you are, by the way--the moment Malfoy tried anything, he would be fired. This job means too much to him to take that risk."

Harry revised his earlier opinion of this floo call: he regretted it fully now.

Cowering like a guilty crup, he mumbled, "I'll talk to him, Hermione. You're right, of course."

"Of course I am."

Then Hermione softened, her expression fond. "I love you, you know. Even though you're a hopeless idiot."

"I know." Harry gave a rueful smile. "Say hi to Ron for me. And tell him the Canons are definitely going down against the Falcons this weekend."

Hermione rolled her eyes but smirked through it and promised she would.

Harry blew a kiss, cancelled the connection, and pushed himself up from the floor. His knees ached something fierce from kneeling on the unforgiving hearth for so long and he had an unpleasant crick in his neck. He really needed to put a plush rug down in front of the floo.

Seeing as this was the hundredth (or so) time he'd had that thought, maybe he'd actually do it.

In the meanwhile, he had a letter to write.


	5. Chapter 5

" _There_ you are, Noctua," Draco exclaimed, shifting his second years' abysmal essays on the uses of flobberworm mucus aside to make room for the owl on his writing desk. "I was beginning to think Potter had taken you hostage."

Noctua fluffed her feathers and hooted disdainfully. Apparently Potter hadn't made a good impression. If for no other reason, keeping her waiting more than a few minutes for a reply was enough to earn Noctua's ire--she wasn't a patient owl. But she was beautiful and clever and, most importantly, Draco's. Draco stroked her mottled black and tawny head affectionately and offered a treat (mouse-flavored, her favorite).

With his owl happily settled, Draco untied Potter's scroll and squinted at its contents; Potter's handwriting was almost as sloppy and illegible as the students'. Several ink blots marred the parchment, which bore the marks of heavy revision--words, phrases, and entire sentences were mercilessly scratched out, only to be reworked and rejected once again. Why hadn't Potter used a smudge removing spell? Or, better yet, simply used a clean piece of parchment once he'd finally settled on the spectacularly eloquent ' _Malfoy, we need to talk. Meet me at the Ravenclaw Tower after dinner. HP_ '?

There was no accounting for Gryffindor logic.

Although he had a veritable mountain of marking to complete this evening, Draco decided against refusing Potter's brutish demand merely to be contrary. Salazar, but the urge was strong. For the sake of the fledgling truce, however, he could be accommodating.

Two hours later, Draco navigated between the rows of benches and knots of excitable children in the Great Hall to take his seat at the High Table. He had to use his rusty Seeker's reflexes to dodge a food-based projectile that had been lobbed at the Hufflepuff table by a Slytherin fourth year named Crowell (he pretended not to notice the source of the attack).

Potter tracked his progress with an unreadable expression. Draco offered a minute nod of acknowledgment that seemed to satisfy because Potter immediately turned his attention to the conversation underway between Longbottom and the barmy half-giant.

Draco slipped into the chair between Sinistra and Flitwick; the latter was engaged in discourse with the Headmistress so Draco exchanged pleasantries with the dark-skinned witch. In spite of her solemn, humorless mien, Sinistra was easily Draco's favorite among the staff. If nothing else, they could always have a pleasant enough chat about the stars. And he approved of her sartorial sensibilities. Tonight she wore smart, traditional robes in a shade of copper that richly accented her cocoa complexion and a matching pointed hat. Draco complimented her accordingly and earned a rare smile for his effort.

With the stress of his impending meeting disturbing his thoughts, he had little interest in conversation this evening. Fortunately, Sinistra was content to eat her meal in silence. Draco made a half-hearted attempt on his roast and fried potatoes, but anxiety rendered the otherwise satisfactory meal bland and unappealing.

He chanced a look in Potter's direction and furtively studied the man's profile. Thick, black hair wild as usual, unflattering and out-date spectacles obscuring eyes Draco knew to be a brilliant shade of emerald green not found outside of ancient Wizarding lines, powerful jaw and well-defined chin, mouth stretched into an easy grin as his broad shoulders shook with laughter at something one of his tablemates had said. Even with his smallish stature, unrefined bearings, and wrinkled, ill-fitted robes, he was irritatingly handsome.

_And it was bloody unfair._

_Wasn't it enough that the git had saved the world, earning the unending praise and adoration of the Ministry and untold legions of rabid fans? Or how about the fact he is naturally gifted at everything he sets out to do, regardless of effort or interest in actually mastering the skills?_

Immediately following the war, Potter had been offered an Auror position sight unseen and in spite of the fact he never sat his N.E.W.T.s. due to his disrupted seventh year. Then he apparently grew bored with it just four years later and he'd abruptly quit even though he was on the fast track to becoming the youngest Head Auror in the history of the DMLE.

But did he suffer for his impetuousness? Of course not. Instead he was offered a professorship on a silver plater, something Draco had had to work his arse off for _years_ to achieve.

The universe had been unreasonably kind to Harry Potter. And it drove Draco mad.

He jerked his gaze away and focused on his meal once again, though he had no desire to eat it. He ground his teeth instead and tried counting backwards from five hundred to calm his frayed nerves. He lost his place somewhere around 375 when Potter's hearty laugh caused something warm and slithery to uncoil in Draco's gut.

The truce was doomed.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry paced the length of the corridor leading to Ravenclaw Tower. The occasional student or two passed by, probably heading to their common room, and shot Harry a curious glance or whispered amongst themselves about his unusual presence in this part of the castle. Harry's stormy expression was enough to dissuade even the boldest from approaching, however.

 _He isn't coming_ , Harry thought darkly after casting yet another _tempus_ charm. He'd been waiting more than 20 minutes. No way Malfoy was still eating his dinner--he'd looked like he was just pushing it around his plate anyway--and he hadn't been having a riveting conversation or anything when Harry left the Great Hall. Harry had made sure Malfoy saw him leave and had expected the prat to follow along shortly after, like he'd been serious about his offer of a truce.

Harry tugged at his hair and loosed a gusty sigh. Of course Malfoy hadn't been serious. He probably just wanted Harry to look the fool wearing a hole in the floor with his ceaseless pacing ( _mission_ _accomplished_ ). Damn Hermione for making him think otherwise.

No, that wasn't fair. Hermione had merely suggested that Malfoy _could_ be telling the truth and Harry ought to find out one way or another. It was Harry who (once again) dared to hope that Malfoy might be willing to--

"All right there, Potter?"

Harry whipped around. Malfoy lounged casually against the undressed stone wall of the corridor, arms loosely crossed, vaulted eyebrow arched, and a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. Harry's own mouth went dry at the sight.

"Potter?" Malfoy tried again, both eyebrows raised now. He waved a hand in front of Harry's face as though to wake him from his trance.

A furious blush caused Harry's cheeks to prickle. He bent down in the pretense of checking the laces on his trainers to cover his embarrassment. "I thought you weren't going to show," he grumbled to the floor.

"After your delightfully cordial letter? How could I not?" Malfoy's words dripped sarcasm.

"I didn't know you needed flowery language on a gilded invitation, Malfoy," Harry sniped, rising to glare at his antagonist.

"I don't," Malfoy spat, abruptly shoving himself off the wall. "What I _want_ is some common courtesy. I suppose that's too much to ask."

"Oh that's rich coming from you!" Harry pointed an accusatory finger. "Maybe we should ask Luna and Ollivander what they thought of your courtesy when they were guests of the Manor."

Malfoy flushed an unattractive shade of puce; he was nearly apoplectic with rage. "How _dare_ you--"

"P-Professors?" stammered a hesitant voice. Niccolò Rossi, Ravenclaw prefect, leaned cautiously into the corridor, brown eyes wide with astonishment and apprehension. Apparently their voices had risen enough to send the boy downstairs to investigate the disturbance.

Harry took a deep, calming breath and offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "I'm sorry we bothered you, Nicco. Professor Malfoy and I were having a bit of a disagreement but all is well. We'll head out so we don't trouble you any longer."

Nicco looked skeptically from Harry to Malfoy, as if to confirm the story. Malfoy, thankfully, plastered a small smile (more of a grimace, really) onto his face and added, "Quite right, Professor Potter. Let us be on our way."

With a final jaunty wave to the incredulous boy, Harry motioned for Malfoy to follow him down the corridor. Malfoy appeared to war with himself for several seconds but finally he deigned to comply.

Once he was sure Nicco had returned to his common room and no other students were around to witness, Harry doubled back to a tapestry hanging on the wall (a rather grisly depiction of an erumpent hunt dating to some time around the 18th century, according to Hermione). Harry drew the tapestry aside to reveal the plain wooden door it concealed.

Malfoy was taken aback. Harry opened the door and ushered him through. "Come on then."

Letting the tapestry fall behind them and shutting the door, Harry wordlessly cast _Lumos_ to give them light to see by. Malfoy did the same, a look of disbelief forestalling the open malevolence Harry expected to return to his features at any moment. The addition of Malfoy's wandlight sufficiently brightened the room to chase lingering shadows out of the corners.

"I thought I knew all of Hogwarts' hidden rooms and secret passageways," Malfoy said to the air, surveying the barren room in which they found themselves. A small, stuffy thing, it was empty save for a vacant portrait frame, a rickety table, and a solitary chair that appeared to be held together by little more than dust and good intentions (Harry had never been daring enough to test its structural integrity).

"Not that this is much to get excited about, but I doubt anyone knows _all_ of Hogwarts' secrets," Harry replied.

Malfoy made a non-committal sound. Harry watched him eye the chair appraisingly and said, "I wouldn't risk it."

"No. Nor would I." A moment later Malfoy quipped, "Circe's circlet, we actually agree on something!" a sardonic smile transforming his face into something altogether too exquisite for Harry's comfort. Contempt and condescension were much more conducive to his mental stability.

"I meant for us to meet in here to avoid causing another scene in front of students," Harry explained, gesturing unnecessarily to their dismal surroundings. "Best laid plans and all that," he added grimly.

He allowed his wand arm to drop to his side but maintained a defensive awareness of Malfoy's position and posture.

"At least they were Ravenclaws," Malfoy offered, facing Harry for the first time since entering the room. "There's a fair chance they'll get too distracted by their homework to gossip effectively. If they had been Slytherins, we'd probably be back in the Headmistress's Office by now rather than this cosy little hideaway."

His casually joking demeanor was unexpected treat, especially considering they had nearly come to blows (again) just a few minutes earlier. Harry aggressively locked down the tangents his mind wanted to wander at the suggestion of being in a 'cosy hideaway' with the man.

"Just so you're aware, Neville knows we're here and I asked him to check on us if he hasn't heard from me in more than an hour," Harry warned. 

"So we only have time for a quickie, then?" Malfoy pouted like it was a mild disappointment.

Harry spluttered, then choked on his saliva. He wondered if it was possible to die of mortification while he struggled to breathe and Malfoy cackled like a hyena on the other side of the room.

"Merlin...your face!" Malfoy exclaimed, wiping mirthful tears from his eyes and continuing to giggle. "Stop blushing like a virgin, Potter. You were married, after all. It shouldn't be quite so shocking."

"You're impossible," Harry griped, face hot with embarrassment and his recent brush with asphyxiation.

"Yes, well, that shouldn't be news to _you_ , of all people." Surprisingly, Malfoy's face remained open and amiable, though the conversation veered dangerously close to hostile territory.

"You've surprised me more than once today," Harry countered honestly. He took a fortifying breath then said, "Tell me about this truce."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys finally talked! For more than five minutes! And without punching each other! Miracles do exist. 
> 
> On a personal note, how'm I doing folks? Is this story working for you? I feel like I'm writing in a vacuum. Feedback is *tremendously* appreciated as this is my first ever attempt at a longer story. Big hugs to all of you who've left kudos and even bookmarked this WIP.


	7. Chapter 7

Draco could not believe how well a bit of strategic humour had salvaged their wayward attempt at civil discourse. It had taken all of his (considerable) will power not to hex Potter's face off the moment he'd alluded to his time in the Malfoy dungeons. Niccoló's fortuitous interruption was the only thing that had kept them from escalating to yet another violent altercation. Draco made a note to award 10 points to Ravenclaw for the boy's timely fulfillment of his prefect duties.

He also made a note to analyze Potter's intriguing reaction to Draco's crude joke, and what had possessed him to make it in the first place, but that would have to wait until later. For now he had a volatile Gryffindor to appease and tenuous peace to uphold.

"I had thought my letter self-explanatory, but I can expand upon it if you wish," he offered, rather graciously, in his opinion.

"Please do," Potter replied, emerald gaze intense but non-threatening. Draco surmised there was little Potter did that couldn't be described as intense. It was a novel thrill to be the focus of his rapt attention for a reason other than the man's suspicion or enmity.

Draco nodded in assent. He pointed his wand--slowly; don't want to startle jumpy ex-Aurors/Dark Lord slayers--at the room's poor excuse for a chair and concentrated. Fixing in his mind the image of his favorite William and Mary antique armchair (high backed, claw-footed, glossy black leather over dark cherry frame, gold studs) and murmuring the incantation, Draco transfigured the pathetic bundle of sticks into something infinitely more suitable for his purposes. He glanced at Potter to find him nodding appreciatively.

Potter looked next at the ragged table and back to Draco, making an unspoken request. Draco tapped his index finger to his lips, thinking for a moment, then transfigured the piece of furniture into an object he thought would be right at home in Potter's quarters--a lumpy, overstuffed recliner in garish Gryffindor colors. Potter guffawed but didn't hesitate to cross the room in three quick strides and drop onto the monstrosity. He squeezed the arms experimentally and bounced like a child on the plump seat cushion.

"I can't say I would have chosen this color palette," he critiqued, "but the chair is right comfortable." Casting a small, speculative smile in Draco's direction, he added, "Impressive spell work, Malfoy."

Draco resisted the urge to preen under the unexpected satisfaction of Potter's compliment. He deflected with more humour instead. "Was that actual praise? Wonders never cease. Perhaps this truce isn't as doomed as I had feared."

Potter's smile stretched into a wide grin and, Salazar, it was even more unexpected and satisfying. "I like to think I am capable of giving credit where credit's due."

"I see," Draco replied vaguely, deciding upon taking the diplomatic route rather than challenging Potter's assertion, though he had never seemed particularly inclined to give Draco credit before now. "Out of curiosity," Draco asked, settling into his own chair, "what color palette would you have selected had you been given the choice?"

Potter looked momentarily self-conscious, then said in a conspiratorial stage-whisper, "Don't tell anyone, but...I'm partial to green."

Delighted that Potter seemed at ease with his company for the first time in, well, ever, Draco played along with an appropriately scandalized mock gasp. "But what would the children think? Are you entirely certain you're _not_ the Heir of Slytherin? First the parseltongue and now this alarming proclivity toward Slytherin house colors." He elected not to voice his opinion that Potter would look fetching in the right shade of green.

Potter chuckled briefly (a deep, breathy sound Draco found he quite liked), then sobered. Fingering the cuff of his right sleeve, he admitted, "I'm actually not a parselmouth any longer."

" _Really_?" Draco was stunned. He'd never heard of someone losing an ability like that before. And for Potter to divulge such a secret to him...it was unprecedented.

"Yeah. It was a gift of sorts from Voldemort," disgust was clearly etched in Potter's features at the notion. "When he died, the ability went with him."

Draco had a great many more questions on the subject but he settled on the relatively inoccuous, "Do you miss it?"

"Not really." Potter shrugged. "It was fun being able to talk to snakes, but it freaked most people out, honestly, and I can't imagine that I would have used it very often."

"You would have reaped more benefit from the talent if you had a snake for a pet. It could have been trained to do your bidding," Draco mused, leaning into his seat back and crossing an ankle over his knee. "That's what _I_ would do if I were a parselmouth."

"I'm sure you would," Potter shook his head reproachfully, friendly smirk taking the sting out of the act. "I, uh, don't really _do_ pets."

"You seemed awfully--" Draco cut himself off, suddenly rembering the conspicuous absence of Potter's snowy owl after the battle over Little Whinging, his closeness to which Draco had nearly belittled offhandedly. He cleared his throat. "Nevermind."

Draco wasn't certain but he thought he recognized wary gratitude in Potter's eyes.

"So...the truce?" Potter prompted after a few charged moments had passed.

"What would you like to know?" Draco spread his hands, indicating the discussion was wide open.

Potter leaned forward in his seat, fixing Draco with a searching gaze. "Why offer it, what do you hope to gain from it, why now, what would the truce look like, and how do I know you'll uphold your end of the agreement?" he asked bluntly, ticking the queries off on his fingers as he listed them. If this coarse pragmatism was indicative of his Auror interview skills, perhaps his premature withdrawal from the DMLE wasn't such a mystery.

"Is that all?" Draco retorted blithely. Potter merely raised a thick eyebrow, causing his trademark scar to pucker. "Very well," Draco raised his right hand to count each answer in turn. "I offered because it seemed the only option left to us if we're going to survive this year together. I hope to gain a modicum of peace and the assurance that at least one threat to my tenure at Hogwarts has been eliminated. The matter struck me as pressing in light of our most recent dressing-down from the Headmistress. I suspect the truce would largely consist of us agreeing not to torment one another, difficult as that may be. And if I weren't earnest about the proposition, do you honestly believe I would be here now?"

Potter was unrelenting. "You've promised not to torment me before and done it anyway," he countered. "What makes this time different?"

Draco sighed in frustration and frowned. They had been conversing harmoniously before this. Why must the great git insist on dredging up the past and spoiling the incipient goodwill they had established thus far.

Unable to think of a better solution, Draco resolved to try a bit of Gryffindorish bluntness himself. "I mean it this time."

Potter's eyes glinted dangerously behind his spectacles. "Prove it," he all-but growled.

Never one to back down from a challenge from Potter, Draco met his stare head-on and coolly demanded, "How?"

Potter leaned back in his seat once again, adopting a falsely casual mien. "I told you a secret. You tell me one in return. It'll even the playing field--you'll show your willingness to sacrifice for the sake of the truce and I'll gain leverage should you try to betray my confidence."

Draco had to appreciate the logic; it was practically Slytherin and therefore unanticipated from the straight-laced Savior. Perhaps--

A knock sounded on the door, heralding Longbottom's arrival. Draco's thoughts scattered as the sense of solitude that had permeated the room was shattered.

"Are you fellows all right in here? I don't need to hose you down with an _aguamenti_ do I?" Longbottom joked, poking his head through the now-open entry.

"We haven't killed each other yet, Nev. Thanks for checking." Potter replied without rising from his seat. "I think we're almost done, actually. Send the search party if I'm not back in twenty."

"So you need another ten minutes to finish each other off?" Longbottom bantered with irrepressible joviality.

"Quite right," Draco interjected, eager to evict the man but unwilling to risk his ire. The Snakeslayer was owed his due.

"Ok, gentlemen," Longbottom nodded farewell to each. "Try not to do anything that'll land you in Azkaban."

"There go my plans for the weekend," Draco dryly rejoined. He heard Longbottom snort as he closed the door behind himself (he was a decent sort, really, for all that he had seemed a useless lump in school).

After a few minutes passed, during which time Draco frantically weighed his options, Potter cleared his throat. "I believe you were considering my terms..."

"Indeed," he stalled.

Draco knew this was a test. Peforming to Potter's satisfaction was crucial if they were to come to any sort of understanding. Much as it pained him, he would have to be entirely truthful and divulge a secret weighty enough to counterbalance Potter's revelation of his loss of parseltongue. It went against every one of his Slytherin sensibilities. With this in mind, he selected his disclosure; the cost to his pride of sharing it was dear, but he trusted Potter would be tactful, at least.

Attempting to channel his mother's quiet grace, he spoke in low tones, shamed to find himself unable to meet Potter's piercing stare, "I'm terrified of any fire bigger than a candle flame that isn't contained within a lantern or floo."

Merely voicing the fear had caused acrid sweat to bead on Draco's forehead, lower back, and underarms, and his heart raced like a thestral foal. Visions of flaming creatures and Vince's frantic screams swam behind his eyelids. He felt faint as he held his breath awaiting Potter's response. Salazar, _anything_ but pity. Draco could survive mocking and disdain, but he couldn't bear the thought of Potter's expression trained on him, eyes filled with pity, like he was some pathetic kneazel in need of rescuing from a tree.

Draco dug his fingernails into his palms while the silence dragged on around him. Long moments passed until he could no longer resist seeking out Potter's gaze. When they locked eyes, Potter held Draco's and said only, "Thank you." Finding nothing but sincerity in his expression, Draco slowly uncurled his fingers, absently noting the crescent-moon imprints his nails left behind, and willed his breathing to return to normal.

Potter levered himself from the recliner and held out his hand to Draco, causing a sudden, painful recollection of two young boys in a reversal of roles. Heart thudding in his chest, Draco stood and clasped the hand, feeling something significant shift inside him at the gesture.

They released the hold in unspoken accord and made to leave the room. Draco cancelled the spell on the furniture, returning it to its former state. The unsteady chair shuddered for a moment then collapsed into a pile of splinters, strained beyond its limit by the rigors of transfiguration. The strange, quiet mood that had descended on the men collapsed with it. Both chuckled as the tension dissipated.

"It appears as though we'll have to bring our own chairs next time," Draco observed wryly. 

"Next time?" Potter asked, clearly surprised.

"Yes. This...whatever it is seemed to go rather well. We managed to survive nearly an hour alone together, at any rate. I thought it would be productive to meet again in the spirit of the truce."

The Gryffindor's expression remained dubious.

"What's the matter, Potter? _Scared_?"

Draco's jibe did just as he'd hoped; Potter's eyes twinkled even as he narrowed them.

"You wish."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we're getting somewhere! Unfortunately, I'm going to have to take a couple of days off from writing. Hopefully this longer chapter will tide you over. XOXO


	8. Chapter 8

A brisk walk through the mostly-quiet halls and stairways, out the front entrance, and across the icy lawns brought Harry nearly to his destination. Fortunately, there were no mischievous ghosts or wayward students about to impede his progress, although it was an hour yet to curfew. With the sun set and temperatures dropping as winter fast approached, the frosty grass crunched beneath Harry's feet and he was glad to know he'd soon be thawing in the warm humidity of greenhouse number three.

Harry let his mind wander on the way; the crisp, cold air was good for clearing his thoughts and he wanted to be a bit more settled before Neville asked his inevitable questions. Nev was a fair sight more perceptive than most people gave him credit for and he could be as persistent as Hermione when he got an idea in his head that he thought vital to his friends' happiness. Plus, ever since he and Hannah had settled down, they'd made it their personal mission to see every last one of their known acquaintances paired off. It was bloody obnoxious, especially since the divorce had firmly established Harry as their number one pet project.

Harry scowled at nothing in particular as he made his way across the yard, but it didn't last long. Neville was a great friend and it was especially nice having him here at Hogwarts with Hermione and Ron off in Ottery St. Catchpole, busy with their ministry jobs and beginning talks about starting a family.

That thought caused a jealous pang in Harry's heart. He wanted children of his own someday; he'd expected he'd have them with Ginny. Sometimes he still wondered if they could have made the marriage work if they'd managed to conceive quickly like they'd tried. But that wasn't a productive train of thought--best to focus on the troubles of the present. And those largely were personified in one, Draco Malfoy.

The first thing Neville would want to know, Harry surmised, was how the meeting had gone but the answer to that wasn't as straightforward as "great," "fine," or "a load of bollocks." Truthfully, it hadn't been anything like what Harry had imagined. Where he'd expected Malfoy to be pretentious and aloof, he'd been agreeable and open instead. He'd answered Harry's questions honestly--Merlin, Harry was still reeling from that bit about the fiendfyre--and he'd joked like they were old friends. Or at least colleagues. Which they were. So...colleagues that didn't want to douse each other with pond slime, at any rate.

Harry wasn't sure why he'd told Malfoy about the parseltongue thing, really. They'd been chatting surprisingly well and Malfoy was acting like a regular person instead of a ruddy ice prince and he made the joke about Harry being the Heir and his grey eyes were smiling even while he pretended to be scandalized and, well, it just sort of came out.

Thank Merlin, Mordred, and Morgana _that_ was the secret Harry had blurted out and not something much more valuable to the Prophet. Malfoy had taken it in stride, but who knows how he might have reacted had the potential for gossip been greater.

It was while Harry struggled to come up with some kind of damage control after blowing the gaff that he struck upon the idea to ask for a secret in return. Malfoy seemed genuine about his offer of a truce so Harry called his bluff. And, by Godrick, Malfoy had shown his cards.

It was a wonder Malfoy managed to hide a phobia that severe from the world. Harry certainly had had no inkling of it. He idly considered who else might know and felt strangely honored to be counted among what he thought must be a select group of people. To be fair, Malfoy was now one of very small handful of individuals who knew about the parseltongue, and most of them were Weaseleys (and one Granger-Weasley). But, still, for him to put that kind of ammunition in Harry's hands was unheard of.

It was oddly exhilarating to trade secrets with an individual who had been, until quite recently, a bitter rival. Harry didn't know what they were now. Not friends, not by a long shot. But the terms of relationship had changed dramatically that evening. It had always been intense, but their roles had been clearly defined. Now it was a nebulous, shifting thing, precarious and thrilling.

And maybe just what Harry needed to satisfy the small part of him that yearned for darkness and danger.

He arrived at the greenhouse no more settled than when had started the trek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a wee baby chapter, I know. But I wanted to give you *something* to read. There is more to come, promise.


	9. Chapter 9

"Oi, Harry!" Neville called from beneath the clutching vines of a venomous tentacula. "Be a mate a zap this grabby plant with a _diffindo_ , would you?"

"Where's your wand, Nev?" Harry asked, even as he freed Neville with the application a few careful slices.

Neville looked shamefaced while checking himself over for injuries. "Back pocket," he mumbled, patting any areas that were unprotected by his thick dragon hide boots, gloves, and apron. "But I would have got it sorted eventually!" he protested to Harry's disapproving eyebrow raise.

Not that Harry had much room to judge with his wand currently secured in his own back pocket. Ron said it was a bad habit of muggleborns and was constantly after Harry to use his forearm holster "like a proper wizard who doesn't want to accidentally break his wand or hex his arsecheek off." (Ron had picked up some impressive nagging skills from Hermione these last few years; living in close proximity to his mum didn't help matters.) But if that was the case, Harry didn't know Neville's excuse.

"Besides," Neville continued, apparently satisfied that he wasn't mortally wounded, "I knew you'd be here in a jiffy."

"What if Malfoy and I had gotten into it after you left and I was detained indefinitely?" Harry argued, leaning against a cutting table (after assiduously checking there were no dangerous plants on or around it; never could be too careful in the greenhouses).

"Gone at it, more like," Neville leered, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

Harry fought against the blush that threatened to overtake him and busied himself by helping carry the subdued tentacula to the demonstration table, where he assumed Neville wanted it for class tomorrow. "Can it, you plonker, or I'll set this vicious plant on you again," he warned.

"I'll be ready for the nasty bugger this time," Neville retorted, brandishing his wand menacingly. "...Speaking of nasty buggers, did you at least tell Malfoy you think he's incredibly fit?" he asked, eyes twinkling.

" _Neville_! You can't just say things like that out in the open where anyone can hear you!"

Neville looked around the deserted greenhouse meaningfully. "It's minutes to curfew and we're the only ones here...unless you're afraid the bubotubers will overhear and gab to my fourth years tomorrow."

"You know I've had bad experiences with nosy bugs hiding in shrubbery before, Nev," Harry countered sulkily.

"In that case, _homenum_ _revelio_ ," Neville said, pairing flick of his cherry wand with the incantation. When nothing happened, he turned to Harry and declared, "It looks like it's just us, mate. So spill the beans--did you snog him silly? Things looked quite heated when I popped in." He elbowed Harry in the ribs to underscore his point.

"You are unbelievable!" Harry groused, throwing his hands up in exasperation and taking a large step away from Neville's ruddy _pointy_ elbow. "You know what, I think I actually preferred Malfoy's company to yours tonight."

"I'm sure you did, Harry," Neville had the gall to wink. "That's what we're talking about, isn't it?"

"Laugh it up, you bloody bastard," Harry grumbled. "What was I supposed to say, anyway? 'Oh, hey, Malfoy. I think this truce thing is a right brilliant idea. By the by, your arse looks fantastic in those trousers, any chance you fancy a shag? Do you even like blokes? Oh, in case it wasn't clear, I'm a flaming poofter. But please don't tell the Prophet, although we both know they'd pay a small fortune for this scoop; I'm not ready to come out officially yet. Also, I thought you were hot in school, even when you broke my nose, tried to kill my friends, got the dark mark, and generally made my life a living hell. I've basically had a crush on you for the last decade in spite of the fact you're a complete tosser, I'm pretty sure you hate me, and I was married to a woman until fairly recently. Is that at all weird for you?'"

Neville looked patiently on through the entirety of Harry's rant. Harry sounded borderline hysterical even to his own ears, but once he got started he found it was hard to stop. It had been an emotional night, he hadn't been sleeping well lately, and he was on edge. A man was entitled to a little nervous breakdown once in a while, wasn't he?

When Harry'd calmed enough to try to catch his breath, Neville asked gently, "You done?"

Harry rubbed his hand over his face, knocking his glasses askew and not caring enough to fix them. He felt somewhat hollowed out after his tirade.

"Yeah. I'm done."

"Feel better?"

"A bit."

"Good," Neville nodded. "Now, first things first, no more calling yourself rude names. I won't abide it."

"Skeeter and her cronies will call me worse when they catch wind of this. You remember the awful things they said about Dumbledore after he died."

"I do." Neville's face hardened momentarily, but he turned a compassionate expression on Harry. "And you've no control over what kind of tripe they publish. What you do have control over is the way you think and talk about yourself and I'll hear none of this self-hating nonsense from you, understand?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Nev." Harry was touched Neville seemed determined to protect him even from himself. Of the few people who knew the real reason for Harry's divorce, Neville had been the most supportive. It probably helped that he wasn't related to Ginny.

"Of course. And as for the rest of your soliloquy," he teased, "it might actually work, you know. There's something to be said for the direct approach. I mean, are you a Gryffindor or aren't you?"

"Your opinion is duly noted," Harry replied tonelessly.

Neville chuckled and said, "Right. Give me a hand with these bags of fertilizer. My counsel isn't free."

Harry spent the next hour recapping his surreal meeting with Malfoy and helping Neville re-pot mandrake sprouts. Neville gave his observations and input, welcome or no. With exhaustion nipping at his heels, Harry eventually had to call it a night.

When he finally made his way back to his rooms, soil under his fingernails, hair sticky and matted with bright orange pollen, and weary down to his bones, Harry reflected that he felt a fair bit more settled than he had earlier in the evening.

Maybe the direct approach wasn't such a crazy idea, after all. Harry resolved to sleep on it and see how Neville's 'counsel' held up in the light of day.

He was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

 

\---------

 

On the other side of the castle, an owl took flight, hastily scrawled letter clutched in her talons.

 _My Dearest Pansy,_ it read _,_

 _I believe I just flirted openly with the Savior of the Wizarding World. It is possible I am under the effects of_ confundus _or a similar spell, particularly because I seem to be considering doing it again in the future. I am in desperate need of your sage advice (and also chocolate, those nice ones from Debauve & Gallais. Please include with your reply). _

_If I do not survive this week, remember to_ incendio _everything in the box at the back of my wardrobe, per our agreement. You may keep my signed 2001 Quidditch Quarterly war orphans charity calendar for your own personal enjoyment, however. July's post-game shower scene featuring the Kenmare Kestrels' keeper is particularly delectable._

_Give my best to whichever "distinguished" gentle-wizard you're cuddling this month._

_I sincerely hope you're enjoying the Riviera, darling. England misses you terribly._

_So do I._

_DM_

_P.S. Noctua is expecting an extra special treat for making the long journey all the way across the ocean for you._

_P.P.S. Potter's eyes are really quite stunning up close. And his smile is absolutely gorgeous, if a bit goofy._

_P.P.P.S. I'm done for._


	10. Chapter 10

Draco was restocking his classroom's potions cabinet the next morning--low on salamander spleen, he'd have to owl order to Diagon for that; the spleens Hogsmead's apothecary carried were rubbish--when one of the school's brown post owls glided in. It landed on his desk but was mindful to not upset his work. Hogwarts owls were well-trained, for all that they were daft little things.

Draco immediately ascertained the letter it bore was not another howler (thank Merlin for that; he still had a ringing headache from the one that had rudely awakened him before dawn). Totally nondescript, it could be from anyone at Hogwarts really, but the way Draco's heart sped up betrayed his secret hope for the sender's identity.

The owl gave a quiet hoot when Draco exchanged a treat for the parchment tied loosely to its leg. Since it made no move to leave, a reply was expected. Draco unrolled the scroll with hands that were most assuredly not shaking (but if they had been, it would likely be due to the draft in the dungeons, not any sort of foolish sentiment like nervous excitement).

_Malfoy,_

_You mentioned wanting to meet again. Free tonight? I had some ideas._

_HP_

Draco's mind practically unhinged itself in its haste to supply images of just what Potter's ideas might be. Draco was fairly certain they were profoundly off the mark, but one could dream. (And he had, last night...and more than a few nights besides. But that was neither here nor there.)

Salazar, Draco had so much work to do, not the least of which was all the marking he had ignored in favor of Potter's company yesterday. Given the fact the truce was supposed to assist in the preservation of his job, it wouldn't do to shirk his responsibilities two nights in a row.

Even if he was sorely tempted.

Draco worried the edge of his thumbnail with his teeth before his mother's quiet chiding voice reminded him such behavior was gauche and unacceptable in a man of good breeding.

There was nothing for it. Draco inked a quill and penned his reply beneath Potter's scrawl.

_Potter,_

_I'm afraid I am far too busy to meet this evening. Perhaps tomorrow night?_

_Regarding your "ideas," should the press be alerted? It is a somewhat novel occurrence for you to have an original thought, is it not?_

_(I jest.)_

_DM_

  

\-----

 

Harry received Malfoy's reply before he'd even started the tea he'd sat down to upon returning from the owlery. He thought that was either a good sign or a bad one. While smoothing the scroll so he could read it, he decided it also might be meaningless.

Seeing as he was back at square one, he resolved to just read the bloody thing rather than tying himself up in knots over what the speediness of its arrival could mean.

...

 _Bollocks_.

Harry supposed it was positive that Malfoy still seemed inclined to meet and wasn't scared off by his keenness to do it again so soon, but it was going to be a challenge getting through today and all of tomorrow with the jittery, anxious anticipation that was making it hard for Harry to sit still even now.

At least Malfoy was still making jokes. That had to be a good sign, right? Unless it was a bad one and Harry didn't realize it...

_Godrick, it was going to be a long two days._

 

\------

 

"Draco Lucius Malfoy, where have you been?! I've been trying to call for hours!" Pansy shrieked from the floo, nearly startling Draco into spilling earl grey on his favorite pyjamas (satin, midnight blue with a subtle dusting of twinkling silver stars on the sleeve and leg cuffs). Fortunately, a lifetime of rigorous Malfoy training meant Draco could hold a teacup steady through a hurricane in a dinghy being tossed at sea.

"Pansy," he greeted coolly from his seat. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Come off it, you pillock. I want details and I want them now." Pansy's glare could rival a basilisk's when she set her mind to it.

"Since you asked so nicely," he replied dryly, "I'd be delighted to oblige. Where should I begin?" Draco couldn't stop his smirk from making an appearance; Pansy was ever so easy to rile.

"Oh, I don't know, let's try whatever happened to make you _flirt_ with the man about whom you have complained bitterly to me in every letter since the start of the term and pretty much _daily_ during our Hogwarts education? The one who, how did you put it, 'attacked you like a rabid clabbert' earlier this week? Who slew the Dark Lord and saw all of his Marked allies locked up in Azkaban, Kissed, or dead (save one)? And, who, I might add is probably so arrow straight he doesn't even realize you're gagging for his cock."

At Draco's quelling glare, Pansy took a breath and aimed for reasonable, with moderate success, "Draco, you asked me if I thought you could get away with poisoning him last Tuesday."

"Because I legitimately wanted to poison him last Tuesday, Pansy. I don't any longer," Draco summarily dismissed the argument, then reconsidered. "Not at the moment, anyway. I reserve the right to reverse my opinion on the matter."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "Then what changed? Excepting the fact you've been obsessed with Potty since we were eleven, this comes as quite a shock."

Pansy seemed genuinely at a loss so Draco took pity. "Besides the fact he's gorgeous when he's not staring daggers at me, you mean?"

"Yes, besides that, Draco." It looked as though Pansy was barely resisting giving in to the urge to reach through the floo and throttle him so Draco wisely refrained from irritating her further.

Ever mindful of the subtle language of appearances, Draco set his cup and saucer on the small cherry end table so he could fold his hands primly in his lap.

Fixing his gaze in the middle distance to affect a look of proper disinterest, he spoke, "We've come to something of an understanding."

He paused briefly to build suspense, to good effect--Pansy was riveted. "Fearing for the security of my position here at Hogwarts, I offered Potter a truce. Desperate times and all. He was, shall we say, receptive. We had an enlightening meeting last night and have plans to revisit the conversation tomorrow. Potter was--" _brilliant, adorable, fierce, gracious, oh-so-_ _fuckable_ , "surprisingly well mannered. I found myself enjoying his company and look forward to doing so again in the near future."

"But that doesn't explain the flirting. Establishing a non-violent, professional, maybe even _amicable_ relationship, sure, but how did you get from there to trying to seduce a recently divorced _Gryffindor_ ," she said the word like it was profane, "who's never shown any romantic interest in men?"

"I didn't exactly plan it, Pans. I joked, he laughed; I teased, he blushed. We talked for almost an hour. I honestly don't expect anything to come of it, but we Slytherins are known for our ambition, are we not?" Draco gave a rueful grin, knowing Pansy still harbored a small crush and was often powerless to resist his charming smile.

"Oh Draco," she sighed. "I hope you know what you're doing."

Melin, so did he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By any chance, are any of you readers from the UK and able to comment on my attempt at proper regional dialect for these fellows? I'm constantly fighting my Southern California slang when writing their dialogue.


	11. Chapter 11

The last thirty five hours leading up to the meeting had been an absolute nightmare for Draco. Between Pansy's haranguing, restless sleep, snot-nosed students complaining about low marks on their essays (never mind the actual grading of said essays, which had been soul-crushingly dismal), yet another bloody howler making it past the elves' defenses, and Potter's utterly conspicuous furtive glances during meals causing Draco's insides to go all aflutter in a most unbecoming way, it was a wonder he had managed to accomplish anything with the time.

Draco's steps faltered as he approached the Edlington Erumpent Hunt tapestry that concealed the entrance to the secret room. What if this was a terrible mistake? What if Potter was putting on a false front in order to humiliate him? He'd already manipulated Draco into revealing his second worst fear; he might have initiated this date in an attempt to gain an even greater advantage. 

Draco felt bile rising in the back of his throat when suddenly he remembered Potter exiting the Great Hall after dinner that evening.

The hapless berk had been trying so hard to "subtly" signal to Draco he'd walked full-speed into the edge of the Hufflepuff table, cracking his hip soundly, upturning several goblets, and generally causing quite a stir. He'd blushed so hard Draco thought he might actually burst into flames, stammered several apologies, then limped out of the room faster than Draco had ever seen someone limp before. Draco shouldn't have found it endearing, he really shouldn't--Slytherin first years possessed more subtlety and finesse--but damn if Draco wasn't absurdly charmed by Potter's ineptitude.

Feeling reasonably sure he wasn't walking straight into a trap, Draco pushed the tapestry aside and entered the room. What he saw next stopped him dead in his tracks. 

"Thanks for not keeping me waiting half the night this time," Potter said by way of greeting.

Draco was too busy taking in the dramatic transformation of the small space to respond. He belatedly erased the gobsmacked expression from his face.

Gone was the ramshackle furniture and inch-deep coating of dust. The walls and floor practically gleamed, having been thoroughly scrubbed and polished. Lanterns flickered merrily from sconces on either side of the door, warmly illuminating the room. The empty picture frame remained, but was now flanked by a lovely pair of bucolic scenes with lush countryside, puffy white clouds in pale blue skies, a meandering stream, pastel wildflowers in abundance, and rolling hills dotted with tiny frolicking sheep.

Draco's chair was there, exactly as he had transfigured it before. A table of complimentary cherry wood (that would fit quite nicely with the furniture in Draco's rooms) dominated the middle of the space, low enough to be easily reached from either of the seats. He spied an unmarked box, a pair of tumblers, and a bottle of amber liquid on its surface. The second chair was no longer the eyesore Draco had originally transfigured, instead Potter was seated in a surprisingly plush wingback chair upholstered with hunter green velvet.

"Do you like it?" Potter asked after a while. He sounded unsure.

Draco allowed his eyes to rest on the man for the first time since entering the room. He'd shed his robes and wore only a muggle t-shirt (black, snug, and mouthwateringly attractive for all that it was pedestrian and unrefined), denims, and the ubiquitous ratty trainers. Were it not for the fact Draco had seen Potter in proper attaire, including formal footwear, at a handful of ministry functions, he would wonder if Potter owned even one respectable article of clothing.

"You've been busy," he replied noncommittaly.

"The elves did most of the work, actually," Potter demurred. "I just came up with the vision and did a bit of the transfiguration." Potter gestured vaguely at their surroundings.

"Is this your handy work?" Draco asked, indicating the chair he lowered himself into.

"Yeah, but it took four tries and the spell's been made permanent by elf magic. I don't have the kind of concentration it takes to maintain transfiguration long term." Potter answered, looking abashed.

He was being incredibly modest; Draco expected him to flaunt his talent and gloat about his prowess, not deflect any hint of recognition or praise. Draco wondered if an explicit compliment would goad Potter's arrogance into making an appearance.

"You did a remarkable job. The room is practically unrecognizable--the ambiance is comfortable and pleasant, the decor well-matched and in good taste, and the transfiguration is excellent."

Rather than leaping to agree, Potter simply beamed. "Thanks," he said. "I'm glad you like it."

Draco wasn't sure he'd ever like anything as much as causing Potter to smile like that. Then he rebuked himself for being a soppy fool and dispensed with the sentimentality.

"Besides redecorating, what were these ideas you had?" he asked, taking care not to sound overly invested in the answer.

"Well," Potter cleared his throat, "You got me thinking about the fact the conversation seemed to go well last time and that maybe we could continue it. You know, trading secrets, building trust, gaining some perspective. I know that I haven't always been...impartial where you're concerned, and I think it's fair to say that goes both ways, so maybe we could try to, um, start over. From the beginning."

For the second time in a handful of minutes, Draco was stunned into silence.

"Er...what do you think?" Potter anxiously tugged his thick hair, mussing it into even more striking disarray in the process.

"The idea is...intriguing." Draco responded carefully. These were treacherous waters. "How did you imagine that might work?"

Potter visibly relaxed at the lack of outright dismissal. "For starters, I thought maybe we could try calling each other by our first names," he said earnestly. (Really, though, what _didn't_ he do earnestly?) "I call pretty much every other professor by their first name unless they prefer otherwise and it seems to me we might be quick to fall back into old habits if we're always calling each other 'Potter' and 'Malfoy' like we barely know the other person."

"Go on," Draco urged, unwilling and unable to comment further after such a staggering development.

"Ok," Potter ( _Harry_?) continued. "Well, I brought some liquid courage or poor man's veritaserum or however you want to think of it--it's Ogden's, by the way. Hope that's all right--and I was thinking we could toast and get down to it."

"And by ' _it_ ,' you mean...?" Draco asked suggesively, eyebrow arched and mouth smirking, trying to re-establish his footing by shocking Potter into losing his. He was well pleased to elicit yet another charming blush. He had had no idea before these last few days Potter was so delightfully easy to embarrass.

"The _talking_ ," Potter spluttered. "I meant the talking."

"Of course," Draco purred, enjoying himself far too much. "Shall I pour then?"

"Please," Potter squeaked, removing his glasses and rubbing the lenses with the edge of his shirt in a transparent attempt to regain some composure (and exposing a tantalizing strip of abdomen in the process). That wouldn't do.

Draco unstopped the bottle, swirled the contents, and poured a generous two-fingers into each tumbler.

Handing one to Potter and raising his own in toast, Draco said, "To new beginnings, _Harry_." The name didn't feel quite as strange as he'd expected in his mouth.

Potter started, then gave a small, pleased smile. "To new beginnings, Draco."

A shiver ran up Draco's spine as they clinked glasses and drank. The firewhiskey burned a pleasant path down his throat to settle warmly in his stomach.

Covertly watching Potter's adam's apple bob as the other man's throat worked to swallow his drink, Draco decided this night held a good deal more promise than he'd originally anticipated.

 _New beginnings_ , indeed. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100+ kudos?! Y'all are wonderful! I'm absolutely thrilled to know you're enjoying this little story. Big hugs to all of you!

Harry gulped his firewhiskey a bit too quickly to be prudent. Especially considering he'd skipped lunch in order to set up the room for this evening and then had been too anxious at dinner to eat much of anything. He wanted to keep his wits about him with Malfoy-- _Draco_ ; that would take some getting used to--and getting pissed in their first five minutes together would not do. At least he didn't choke on the drink. Merlin, what was it about Ma--Draco that had him tripping all over himself like a bloody berk?

Harry suspected he had blushed more in the past three days than his entire life before now. His hip still throbbed painfully from the ridiculous scene he'd caused in the Great Hall. He rubbed it absentmindedly and nearly hissed when his fingers prodded the tender flesh.

"I have a good bruise vanishing cream if you'd like," Draco offered. "I can vouch for its efficacy," he added sardonically and gestured to his jaw.

Harry cringed. "Sorry about that," he offered. "Mostly, anyway. You _were_ being a right prick."

That startled a short bark of laughter from Draco. Godrick, he was a different man when he was like this. He'd always been attractive, but in a sneering arsehole sort of way. But now, with his smile full of good humour instead of derision and hate, he was...something else entirely.

"I suppose I was," Draco granted. Then, "What's in the box?"

"Gobstones," Harry replied, moving to lift the lid and set the circular board on the table.

" _Gobstones_? That's a child's game, Potter. I mean, Harry." Draco amended, although he still looked skeptical.

"It was this or Wizard's chess, which I'm utter pants at," Harry explained, arranging the gobstones within the circle. "We'll play standard rules, except I charmed the stones so they won't spray us with that nasty liquid when we lose a point. We'll have to tell a secret instead." He said it nonchalantly, like it wasn't as absurd as it sounded even to him. He held his breath awaiting Draco's response.

"Hm." Draco appeared to ponder the prospect, index finger tapping his lips in what Harry had come to realize was his 'thinking face.' "I'm less opposed to the idea without the risk of smelling like the quidditch locker room after a game. But what if one of us is a good deal better than the other and the sharing of secrets is inequitable? That hardly seems fair."

"I thought of that, actually." Harry was proud he had anticipated this objection. "No one should have to share more than one secret in a row. We'll just keep playing until the other person has lost a point and must take their turn."

"That could work," Draco seemed to be considering it. He tapped his finger again. "Though I must ask, why go through the motions of playing gobstones anyway? We could just take turns revealing bits about ourselves and dispense with the pretense."

Harry grinned. "If you want to know the answer to that question, you'll have to gain a point." Draco narrowed his eyes. "It's a _secret_ ," Harry added, sotto voce, behind his hand.

The corners of Draco's mouth crinkled in the barest hint of a smile and Harry's heart did a little flip in response.

"In that case," Draco drawled, "game on."

"I call blue," Harry declared, leaving Draco with red. The Slytherin scowled right on cue as Harry gleefully positioned his blue gobstones.

In short order, the two men set about trying to knock the other's gobstones out of the circle. Harry noticed the casual grace with which Draco moved, how he did most things, really. His hands appeared delicate, fine-boned and slender fingered, and he was accurate and economical with his shots. His face was a study in concentration--blond brows drawn and pale pink lips narrowed into a thin line. A lock of platinum hair had fallen from its usual smoothed-back position and hung across one eye. Merlin, he was beautiful. And for all that he had been dismissive of the game, Draco was clearly playing to win.

Predictably, with Harry's attention so distracted and the persistent jitters fouling his shots, Draco was first to knock one of his opponent's gobstones out of the circle. He pumped his fist and crowed in triumph and Harry found he didn't mind terribly.

Draco quickly composed himself after his undignified display. "Why the pretense of the game?" he asked without preamble.

"Honestly? You intimidate me," Harry answered forthrightly, rolling his lost gobstone in his palm as he spoke. Draco's eyes widened fractionally at the admission. "You can talk circles around me and I know you're always analyzing every little thing I say or do so I wanted a buffer. The game gives me something to focus on other than your scrutiny." Harry traded the gobstone for his tumbler and took another long drink, emptying the glass. He pretended the heat in his cheeks was from the firewhiskey.

"I...," Draco blinked once, slowly, then cocked his head to the side. "Let's go again, shall we?"

If he had more to say, he didn't show it. Harry desperately wanted to ask, but instead he leaned over the table and set about trying to even the score. He succeeded before too long, having decent reflexes when they weren't being crippled by his fixation with Draco.

"Why do you _really_ want to teach here?" Harry asked. "Forgive me, but I don't believe you have the deep, abiding passion for education you claimed when making your statement to the press before the start of this term."

"How very perceptive of you," Draco intoned. He poured himself another finger of firewhiskey and offered to top off Harry's glass. Harry declined; Godrick knows he was plenty addled already.

"You are correct," Draco affirmed. "I am not passionate about education, per se. This appointment is a tremendous honor, however. If I can prove myself here it should go a long way toward restoring the Malfoy name. In addition, I have access to a number of invaluable resources with which I can further my alchemical studies in my time off. And I don't _hate_ teaching. Usually."

"Was the Mark a factor in the decision?" Harry asked, glancing at Draco's left forearm even though it was covered by his robe sleeve.

Draco stiffened but then relaxed by degrees as though he were willing himself to do so. "That's _two_ questions," he retorted after a moment, "but I'll answer anyway because I'm feeling generous."

Harry nodded in aknowlegment and thanks. The war was a touchy subject; he appreciated Draco's willingness to address it.

"The Dark Mark was a factor in my decision, yes," Draco replied, eyes on the fingers that were now gripping the edge of his leather armrest. "Suitable employment has been...difficult to come by for those of us who were on the losing side of the war. The headmistress was the first person who was truly willing to look past the Mark and judge me based on my merit. I owe her a great debt of gratitude. That is part of the reason I wish to remain in my position--I am unwilling to betray the faith she placed in me when so few others would."

"Minerva is an amazing woman," Harry commented sincerely. 

"And an excellent headmistress," Draco contributed.

After a brief pregnant silence, they returned to the game. A few moments and missed shots went by before Draco knocked another blue gobstone out of the circle. He picked up his tumbler and leaned back in his chair, balancing the glass in a palm on his lap. Harry could tell the next question would be a doozy by the slight smug look playing about Draco's features.

"Get on with it then," he urged, anxiety spiking the longer he was kept in suspense.

"If you insist," Draco smirked. "Why did you and the Weaselette decide to terminate your marriage?"

And there it was. Harry's stomach lurched and he fought a momentary panic. He reminded himself he had expected this question sooner rather than later. May as well be out with it.

He smothered his alarm with indignation and said firmly, "Her name is Ginny."

"Okay," Draco responded, drawing out the word, "why did you and _Ginny_ decide to terminate your marriage?"

Harry felt the weight of Draco's silver gaze. He was having serious second thoughts about this whole trading secrets idea. He liked the notion of learning Draco's secrets but when push came to shove, it was a good deal harder to share his own. But he remembered how much Draco had trusted him with already and how hard it must have been for him to do so, and called upon his deep well of Gryffindor courage.

"We were unhappy," he began unsteadily. "The marriage...well, it wasn't what a marriage is supposed to be." Harry sighed and idly spun his empty tumbler on the polished surface of the table. "I love Ginny. I expect I always will. But I wasn't _in love_ with her."

Harry glanced up to find Draco watching him with a look of intense concentration. He didn't even appear to be breathing. Somewhat unnerved, Harry continued, "Ginny realized things weren't...normal," he almost choked on the word from the rush of memories it unleashed of his years with the Dursleys.

"We fought constantly and I started spending longer hours on the job just to avoid coming home. Things finally came to a head after I'd been gone two weeks chasing yet another dark lord wannabe and I'd neglected to send Ginny a single owl. She had had to ask the Head Auror if I was on assignment because she had no idea where I was. It was humiliating for her, as I'm sure you can imagine, and she confronted me when I returned home. I realized I couldn't lie to her anymore and things sort of went pear shaped after that. She moved out that day and served me with papers three days later. We were divorced neat and tidy two months after that."

Throwing prudence to the wind, Harry poured himself another firewhiskey and downed half of it in one gulp. Tears prickled his eyes and he struggled to swallow past the lump in his throat.

"May I ask another question?" came Draco's surprisingly gentle voice.

Harry turned a measuring stare on him. Draco sat quietly, hands folded around the tumbler in his lap, and there was no trace of malevolent glee on his face or in his bearing.

"I s'pose. I might not answer it, though."

Draco nodded, then asked the question he had been dreading the most: "What stopped you from having a 'normal' marriage?"

Harry huffed a mirthless laugh. Steeling himself for the worst, he held Draco's penetrating gaze and said, "I'm gay."


	13. Chapter 13

Oh.

_Oh!_

Even as Draco's mind whirred with new possibility, he schooled his features into a placid mask. Potter was still as a statue but for a sleight tremor in his hands and the pulse hammering in the hollow of the throat.

Based on its total absence from the wizarding papers, Draco surmised there were precious few who knew this fact, and none, he was sure, who weren't completely loyal to Potter. Even his jilted ginger ex hadn't gone straight to the Prophet, although doing so would surely have been a balm to her wounded ego. Potter had bared his jugular to Draco in telling this secret and from the hunted look in his dazzling green eyes, he half expected Draco to go in for the kill.

Draco relished defying Potter's expectations.

"In that case," he said irreverently, "welcome to the club."

For long moments it appeared as though Potter didn't register Draco had spoken. Then he exclaimed, " _You're_ gay?" with eyebrows raised so high they virtually disappeared into his black fringe.

 _Typical oblivious Gryffindor_.

"Yes, Harry," Draco spoke slowly as if responding to one who was particularly dimwitted, "but I don't see how that is much of a revelation. It's not like I hid the fact in school."

"You...what?" Potter seemed to struggle to process what he was hearing, if his drawn brows and frequent blinks were any indication. The firewhiskey likely wasn't helping matters; Draco felt somewhat muzzy from his own alcohol consumption and Potter had had more than him.

Draco scoffed. "How ever did you survive being hunted by the Dark Lord?"

"I had Hermione with me," was Potter's guileless retort. "And Ron, too, of course." He set his tumbler on the table and proceeded to rub his palms slowly across his velvet-covered seat cushion in what was clearly an unconscious self-soothing attempt.

"That explains it," Draco declared, ignoring the second half of Potter's statement (there was no way Weasley had contributed anything of merit to the struggle). "I understand she does the thinking for all three of you." Potter rolled his eyes but didn't argue. "I long wondered why she wasn't sorted Ravenclaw," Draco mused, "but seeing as you've _both_ socked me in the face at this point, it must be a Gryffindor trait--l'll have to be extra vigilant around Longbottom from now on." Draco interrupted his reflections to ask, "How are the Weasels anyway?" knowing full well it would annoy Potter and delighting in that knowledge.

" _Please_ stop calling them that," Potter responded emphatically, right on cue. Draco suppressed his smirk. "Besides," Potter continued, "Hermione hyphenated--it's Granger-Weasley for her." _Of course she did_ , Draco sneered internally. "And they're fine. Thanks for asking. But you're changing the subject--what do you mean you didn't hide it in school?"

Potter leaned forward with his forearms braced on his thighs and hands dangling between them, gormless expression on his face.

Draco was beginning to tire of his cluelessness. "Isn't that rather self-explanatory?" he queried. "I am gay. I dated boys openly. That seems to be the long and short of it."

Such a look of consternation marred Potter's otherwise attractive features, Draco worried he would sprain something in his brain with all the effort he seemed to be putting into understanding.

"But what about Parkinson?" Potter demanded. "You two were all over each other from third year on."

"You were keeping track? How... _interesting_." Draco made sure to put enough leer into his gaze to make Potter squirm before responding, "She's my best friend, nothing more. But she is as handsy as the giant squid and I'm irresistible." Draco was pleased to see Potter's expression flicker on the word. "Who am I to begrudge her a few harmless cuddles and strokes? ...Did it pass your noticing that Blaise also was 'all over' me, to borrow your charming phrase, and I him through much of year five?"

Potter chewed his bottom lip. Draco entertained a passing fancy of taking over for him.

"I guess not," Potter admitted. "But I thought that was just Zabini. When was he _not_ draping himself on one Slytherin or another?"

A dark emotion passed through Draco. He worked to keep it off his face and out of his tone when he replied, "That was why we broke up, actually. I don't share well, Potter--Harry. Maybe because I'm an only child or because I was spoiled or both, but I tend to guard my possessions rather jealously."

He immediately noticed Potter was rankled by his phrasing, and that fact rankled him in turn.

Potter folded his arms across his chest. "You think of people as possessions?" he asked pointedly.

"Yes," Draco dug in his heels, "if they're _mine_."

"I don't like that attitude," Potter declared sanctimoniously, like he was the arbiter of all that was good and right in the world and Draco should recoil in horror at the thought of displeasing him.

Draco's temper rose.

The temptation to play right into Potter's biases was strong. If the prat still thought so lowly of Draco after all his effort these past few days, it would be better for Draco to cut his losses now than risk the pain of rejection in the future, when the hurt would be greater.

But seeing Potter, taut as a coiled spring and practically crackling with suppressed magical power that defied his small stature, Draco didn't want to give up. He'd given up so much and so many times in his life it was nearly his defining characteristic. And he was bloody sick of it. He wanted this infuriating man and, Salazar as his witness, he would do everything in his power to have him.

Taking a steadying breath, Draco responded. "Don't get your red and gold knickers in a twist. _Of course_ I believe all people are independent agents with a right to their own free will, thoughts, feelings, etcetera, etcetera," he waved his hand dismissively. "I was merely explaining that fidelity is a non-negotiable requirement in my dating relationships."

"For the sake of clarification," Potter continued skeptically, attitude and posture unbending, "how are you defining 'people'?"

Draco heaved a sigh. The git was looking for a fight. Well, Draco wouldn't give it to him.

"Any sentient being, magical or otherwise," he replied evenly, as though reciting from a book (or, more likely, a bit of legislation penned by Ms. Granger-Weasley).

Potter _finally_ uncrossed his arms and relaxed into his seat, Gryffindor sense of justice apparently satisfied.

"I guess that's all right, then," he said reluctantly.

"Thank Merlin!" Draco sarcastically exclaimed, holding a hand to his heart. "I can die a happy man."

"Yeah, yeah," Potter waved him off, but there was amusement in his eyes.

"Can we get back to our game now?" Draco asked impatiently. "I have more questions and it seems you might be drunk enough to actually answer them. Speaking of which, more firewhiskey?" he added cheekily.

"Godrick, no!" Harry laughed. "I've had quite enough, I'm sure."

"In that case, I believe it's your go." Draco gestured to the board, feeling lighter and more hopeful than he had in ages.

He didn't even hide his smile. 


	14. Chapter 14

Harry could definitely feel the effects of the firewhiskey. He thanked the fates he had had the foresight to institute the "one secret at a time" rule; without it he would be horrifically indebted to Draco at this point.

As if on cue Draco knocked yet another blue gobstone out of the circle while Harry missed his seventh attempt on a red that was scant millimeters from the line. It really shouldn't be this difficult. But the more Draco succeeded (and smirked), the harder it seemed for Harry to put his gobstones where he wanted them. Godrick, maybe he should have challenged Draco to a Seekers game instead; at least Harry knew he could hold his own on the pitch.

Finally, just as he was seriously considering overturning the whole board (and table, to boot), Harry hit the bloody gobstone squarely and sent it launching across the room to ricochet off the stone wall and roll into a corner somewhere. He sagged in relief and rubbed at his jaw, which had gone a bit sore from how hard he'd been clenching it.

"Merlin's tits, Harry! I thought you'd never hit the damn thing." Draco shook his head in dismay. The act brought even more gossamer strands of hair falling forward to sweep over his sharp cheekbones, softening his angular face in a way Harry had never seen before and found he quite liked. Draco's cheeks were rosy and his bearing loose; between that and the swearing, maybe Harry wasn't the only one feeling the firewhiskey.

"Why do you always wear your hair styled so severely?" Harry asked inanely, before he could think better of it. He regretted it immediately, of course.

"Seriously? You work half the night to move that gobstone so you can ask me a question, _any_ question, and that's the one you choose? You really are drunk," Draco remarked. "And I must be, too, because I'm going to give you the answer for free: I don't like having my hair in my face. It's a simple as that."

Draco ran a hand through said hair to push it out of said face, but to no avail. The strands were so fine they immediately fell forward again. He tsked and lifted his wand to spell it back but Harry stopped him with a hand on his forearm. "Hang on!" he cried. "I...erm," he coughed, suddenly self-conscious, particularly with Draco staring at him completely frozen and with both eyebrows raised in surprise. Harry could feel heat radiating up his arm from the grip. It had to be imaginary, given the heavy robes and starched shirt that separated them, but Harry let go as if burned anyway.

"What, pray tell, was that all about?" Draco inquired, tugging his abused sleeve back into place. "You didn't honestly think I was about to off myself, did you? Your gobstones skills aren't _that_ appalling."

"No!" Harry protested. "I, er...well, the thing is, um--"

Draco sneered, but it was an obvious affectation. "Eloquent as ever, Harry."

"Come off it, you wanker. I like it like this, all right? Merlin!" Harry blushed furiously once again. It was a shame, too--he'd had a good streak of not blushing for at least the last ten minutes.

Draco beamed...if it's possible to beam without actually smiling. "I suppose I can leave it, then," he replied, tucking his wand back into its holster. "But this better not be a ploy to undermine my obvious superiority at the game by hampering my peripheral vision."

"I'm too pissed for ploys right now," Harry admitted, somewhat disappointedly.

Draco snorted inelegantly; it was a night for firsts it seemed. "Ask me your real question, then," he urged. "Unless you're too pissed for that, too, and we should bid our farewells."

"No! Not too pissed for that," Harry rushed to assert. Draco smirked. At least Harry was already blushing so there was no place for a new one to occupy.

He racked his brain--there were so many questions he wanted to ask. Why had Draco been so hostile to him since they started on at Hogwarts even though they'd barely seen each other, let alone had any interactions, for almost six years before then? Why was he such a bastard when Harry had returned his wand? Why did he get the mark? What was it like living with Voldemort--no, Harry had seen enough glimpses to know he didn't want to hear the answer to that question. In any event, the questions clammoring for attention all seemed too heavy for the mood in the room.

The other kind of question begging to be asked ( _Do you have a boyfriend? What are you like in the bedroom?_ ) felt too forward. Harry was stuck. Grasping at straws, he finally settled on, "Do you have any other tattoos?" but felt stupid because he was sure the answer was no and he'd just wasted his turn. Again.

"As a matter of fact, I do," Draco answered slyly, leaving Harry dumbfounded. Even more so when he asked, "Would you like to see it?" tilting his head coquettishly and looking up at Harry through his eyelashes and a fall of hair.

"Yes!" was Harry's emphatic reply. He'd done an absurd amount of shouting these last few minutes.

Draco chuckled. He stood from the chair and shrugged out of his robes. Harry's heart began to thud and he sat watching, transfixed. When Draco's elegant fingers set to work on the buttons of his crisp white shirt, Harry thought he might jump out of his skin.

"Where--" his voice cracked embarrassingly on the word. He cleared his throat and tried again, "Where exactly _is_ the tattoo?" he managed to croak. He wiped suddenly sweaty palms on his denims.

"On my right shoulder blade," Draco replied huskily, pinning Harry with a smoldering gaze instead of watching what he was doing. Merlin, it should be criminal to be that sexy--Draco wouldn't even have to _Imperio_ Harry at this point to make him do his bidding.

Harry swallowed loudly. He had a vague impression of the narrow bit of torso Draco had exposed (pale and smooth and wickedly tempting), but he didn't dare break the electric stare in order to get a better look.

Finally finished with his task (how many buttons were on the bloody shirt, anyway?), Draco curled his fingers around either side of the fabric and made as if he were going to drop the garment like he had his robes.

Harry could hear the blood rushing in his ears. It had a clear destination and he crossed his legs in an ineffectual attempt to hide the result. (That was one definite advantage of traditional robes--they were a fair sight better at hiding inappropriate erections than the fitted denims Harry prefered.)

Instead of dropping the shirt as Harry had expected, Draco turned abruptly and hitched the fabric up so that it fell off his shoulders and hung from his elbows just above waist-height. Draco's back (what Harry could see of it anyway) was long and lean and gorgeous. Harry's eyes raced to take it all in, but they were immediately drawn to the vibrant shape on Draco's prominent shoulder blade.

"It's a phoenix!" Harry breathed in wonder. His fingers itched to trace the brilliant red-gold lines that stood out in sharp relief against Draco's pale skin.

"It is," Draco confirmed, looking becomingly over is shoulder at Harry. "I trust the symbolism is not lost on you?"

"It's beautiful," Harry said reverently by way of reply. He thought he saw the corner of Draco's mouth tilt up in response but he was too busy admiring the bright swirling form of the phoenix to confirm it.

The shape was abstract but unmistakable. And it was such a perfect contrast to the Dark Mark--bright and hopeful and full of life and something Draco had chosen for himself. And the meaningfulness of Draco branding himself with a creature born of fire was not lost on Harry. He was deeply moved.

He might also have fallen the tiniest bit in love.

Then again, that could just be the firewhiskey talking.

It didn't feel like it, though.


	15. Chapter 15

Draco allowed him to look few moments more. His skin prickled under the heat and intensity of Potter's gaze. He wondered briefly if Potter would cross the distance between them, but it seemed the man was content to sit and stare for now. Probably some misguided Gryffindor notion of propriety, more's the pity.

Pulling his shirt back up and beginning to button it, he turned and asked, "What about you, then? Any tattoos?"

Tearing his gaze from Draco's body and returning it to his face (with some effort, Draco noted smugly), Potter replied, "Yeah, two."

_You don't say._

Draco's interest was certainly piqued. He decided to forgo his robes for the rest of the evening and stooped to pick them up off the floor. He folded them neatly, draped them over the back of his chair, and gave Potter an expectant look as he seated himself.

Potter complied, angling his body so his right shoulder faced Draco and pulling up his sleeve to reveal the palm-sized, highly stylized, black outline of a stag's head--little more than a narrow triangle with slanted eyes and branching antlers that bowed around Potter's bicep.

After a minute, Potter turned the other way and exposed a matching doe in the same style on the outside of his left bicep. Draco thought they suited him well in their simplicity and statement. The fact that they drew attention to Potter's well-defined muscles was an added bonus.

"For your parents?" Draco asked, though he knew the answer already.

"Yeah," Potter confirmed, clearly surprised. "How'd you guess?"

"I've seen Severus's patronus. I asked him about it once; he didn't tell me outright but I was familiar enough with his past to deduce who featured in his happy memory. Salazar knows the wretched man had few enough of them. And I'm aware your patronus is the stag so it wasn't hard to put two and two together."

"Clever," Potter flattered, although he wore a complicated expression likely owing to the mention of the deceased man.

Potter had publicly named Severus a hero after the war and had championed the inclusion of his portrait with the other former headmasters but Draco wondered if his true feelings about his godfather were somewhat more nuanced. To be sure, Severus was a hard man to love; yet love him Draco had, and missed him sorely most days. In some respects, he'd been more of a father to Draco than Lucius, lost as he was to the Dark Lord's schemes.

Potter interrupted Draco's maudlin thoughts, saying, "I don't think I know what your patronus is." The unspoken question was obvious.

"If you want to find out, it will cost you another gobstone," Draco challenged, shaking off his melancholy. "I've given away enough secrets for free this evening; any more and my Slytherin House membership will be revoked."

"We can't have that!" Potter cried, sarcasm writ plain in his smirk. Draco flicked a gobstone at him and it thunked satisfyingly off Potter's forehead. He had targeted the lightning bolt and was pleased his aim proved true.

"Ow! You tosser," Potter whinged, but fought a smile. "That stung!" he insisted, massaging his ostensibly gravely wounded skull.

"I'm sure it did-- _you big baby_."Draco muttered the second part under his breath but loud enough for Potter to hear.

Potter snorted, but ceased his theatrics. "If you're quite through pelting me with projectiles..." he admonished. "It's your turn next so we'd best get to it if I'm to have my answer this evening."

"Greedy," Draco chided, but made short work of sending another of Potter's gobstones rolling across the floor somewhere.

"Godrick!" Potter exclaimed, throwing up his hands in dismay, "If I had known you were a ringer I would have brought a different game!"

Draco preened. Praise from Potter, even this begrudging sort, was like a balm to his soul.

"It wouldn't have mattered," he boasted, crossing his legs and relaxing into his seat back like a king on his throne. "I am the undisputed champion of any game that can be played on a table."

Potter smirked. "Is that so?"

"Mhm," Draco nodded, assured in his position, then amended, "Wizarding games only, of course. I do not see the point in wasting time with those dreadfully simple muggle games."

"I'm sure. Well, we'll have see about your bold claims then, won't we?" Potter ominously declared. He had his scheming face on.

It was pathetically transparent.

"While you think on whatever dastardly plan you're brewing, you may also answer my next question: Why did you quit the Aurors?"

Potter frowned. He took a breath, made as if to start, paused again, brow furrowed, and finally settled on his wording. "I had some time to...reevaluate my life choices after my marriage fell apart," he began. "The short answer is I didn't enjoy the work. Like marrying Ginny, I joined the force because that was the thing everyone expected me to do. And I was good at it. But I hated it."

He rubbed his scar momentarily; Draco was fairly sure it was old habit rather than residual soreness from the gobstone. "I was bloody tired of fighting for my life and hunting dark wizards and only taking a break from those things to fill out reams of paperwork. And my 'celebrity status'," Potter grimaced, "was far more of a liability than an asset with people coming out of the woodwork to challenge 'The Boy Who Killed Voldemort,' the Prophet reporting on active investigations and mucking up crime scenes, and the public mobbing me for autographs and dosing me with love potions wherever I went. And don't get me started on the Ministry--fucking pit of vipers," he spat.

Draco was stunned. And he wanted to ask about a hundred follow up questions. While some of Potter's explanation was to be expected, much of it was surprising--among other things, he'd always thought Potter enjoyed the hero worship.

But Draco would rather save his questions than spoil the mood for the rest of the evening. 

In light of that fact he replied, "Is that all?"

Potter rolled his eyes but Draco's ploy worked as he'd hoped to prevent him from ruminating overmuch.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Draco simpered, "but don't your best friends work for said viper pit?" (He had to poke the lion at least a little bit.)

"They do," Potter nodded, irritatingly earnest. "Thank Merlin for that! The Ministry needs people like them. I just couldn't be one of those people anymore."

"I see," Draco intoned. He wasn't interested in discussing the Weasels and their amazing qualities or fantastic achievements, nor Potter's perceived character flaws.

Deciding this was as good a time as any to be done with it, he asked, "Do you want to know about my patronus now?" Draco set about convincing himself and Potter both they were discussing something as trivial as the weather.

Potter perked right up at the offer, but said suspiciously, "I thought you weren't giving out any more free answers."

Draco shrugged with one shoulder. "I realized I'd rather risk my Slytherin status than suffer again through watching you try--and fail--to hit one of my gobstones."

"That's big of you," Potter laughed, shaking his head (at Draco's joke or in self-deprecation, Draco was unsure). "So what is it?" Potter asked, pinning Draco with the weight of his full attention.

Draco sniffed. He focused on a spot just to the left of Potter's head rather than risk eye contact. "I have never successfully produced a corporeal patronus," he replied flatly.

"Oh." After a pause, "Would you like me to teach you? I sort of do that for a living these days," Potter volunteered, somehow modestly and pompously at the same time. It was a unique talent. And uniquely grating.

Draco was quite sure he would rather shovel hippogriff dung than subject himself to that particular humiliation.

"Delightful as that sounds," he replied, finding the will to return his gaze to Potter, "I think I shall decline. I understand the mechanics--I'm adept at spell work, you know--it's the matter of the memory that has me hamstrung."

Potter screwed his face up in contemplation. If it pained him as much as it seemed to, Draco was beginning to understand why Granger had been the brains of the Golden Trio.

Suddenly lighting up like he'd solved the riddle of the Sphynx, Potter suggested, "What about that time you got half the school to wear those 'Potter Stinks' badges? That has to be a crowning achievement."

Potter winked. _  
_

It surprised a genuine chuckle out of Draco. He'd anticipated more obnoxious sincerity; Potter's wry humour was a welcome diversion. Potter was cleverer than Draco had credited him if he was truly providing restitution for the offense caused by his earlier offer, as seemed to be the case.

Potter gazed on with a look of naked appreciation. Salazar, Draco was testing the limits of his restraint by not simply launching himself at the man and having his way with him.

He gave himself a mental shake before replying, "Oh it is, certainly, but not quite happy enough, apparently. Perhaps I should recreate the badges to say 'Professor Potter Stinks' and convince the _whole_ school to wear them this time," he proposed. "That might do the trick. I admit to feeling a measure of buoyancy just imagining it."

"It's worth a shot," Potter remarked, grinning and utterly unruffled. " _I'd_ even wear one for such a good cause." His green eyes shone with merriment.

Draco wanted savagely to claim him. _Mine, mine, **mine** , **MINE**_ , his id chanted.

"You are a generous man," Draco said instead, gravely, and only partially in jest; though he suspected at least some of the burning desire he felt must be reflected in his face.

Potter leaned slowly toward Draco. "Oh, I can be _quite_ selfish," he countered in low tones filled with promise and threat in equal measure.

A delicious shiver up Draco's spine. "That remains to be seen, Harry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks. This chapter put up a fight and I had a beast of a time writing it. 
> 
> What are these idiots doing putting their clothes back on, anyway? That won't do at all.


	16. Chapter 16

Merlin, Harry was flirting openly with Draco.  _Draco Malfoy_. And Draco was flirting back! Not scowling or laughing or hexing him or fleeing the room or any number of things that made more sense given their history.

Harry had wondered if Draco might've been flirting with him earlier but it just seemed so implausible he'd chalked it up to wishful thinking and the firewhiskey's influence, and maybe Draco having him on for a laugh. But, no, Harry had seen that hungry look in Draco's eyes on would-be lovers before (and Ginny, he remembered with a momentary pang) and he knew it was real.

That knowledge was intoxicating.

Harry's heart hammered in his chest and the fire in his veins spurred him to action, but his conscience (which sounded an awful lot like Hermione) said he shouldn't rush headlong into a dalliance with Draco just because it was there for the taking.

Draco sat calmly while Harry's racing thoughts were anything but. Harry drank in the sight of him.

Draco was made of sharp angles and sharper eyes, slightly smirking cupid's bow lips that begged to be kissed, cornsilk hair Harry itched to run his fingers through if for no reason other than the novelty of not having them snag, and everything under the dress shirt and charcoal trousers that Harry wouldn't even let himself imagine (except for the amazing tattoo--he imagined that plenty), and Harry wanted. 

 _Godrick_ , how he wanted!

But he knew sex alone wouldn't--couldn't--be enough. And that meant Harry couldn't satisfy his desires until he knew better what _Draco_ wanted and what he'd be willing to give.

Harry sighed, knowing his resolve meant the end of the strange and wonderful evening. He didn't trust himself enough to remain this close to Draco and not give in to temptation.

"What's that sigh about?" Draco inquired. Bloody perceptive.

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "I was regretting the fact I'm going to have to call it a night," he said.

Draco frowned. "So soon? I thought we were enjoying ourselves." He eyed Harry warily, posture stiffening.

"I was-- _am_! Was _and_ am," Harry rushed to explain, not wanting to hurt Draco's feelings or give him the wrong impression. "It's just that the firewhiskey's gone to my head and, uh...um...," _in for a knut, in for a galleon_ , "You know how you said Parkinson finds you irresistible? Er...I...you see, it's like this--oh hell-- _She'sNotTheOnlyOne_." Harry uttered the last bit on an exhale and found himself suddenly lightheaded.

Gasping for breath he thought, _Smooth, Harry. Real smooth._ Merlin, he could kick himself!

Draco looked puzzled a moment as he tried to decipher Harry's ravings. Then a slow, warm smile thawed the ice that had settled over his features.

An answering warmth suffused Harry's body and his tension gradually dissipated.

"You find me irresistible, do you?" Draco purred. Damn the man.

"I might, maybe," Harry hedged, tugging his fringe.

"And you don't trust yourself alone in here with poor, defenseless me?" he teased. "Or is it the other way around? Are you worried I might ruin you for other men, Harry? I might, at that."

Harry gulped. "I...I need to think about things, Draco."

Draco's face shuttered. "I'm sure you do," he sneered. "Best floo Ms. Granger-Weasley."

Harry narrowed his eyes, considering offense and decidedly unsettled. "Being a prat actually makes it easier for me to go," he said.

"I know," Draco replied, unexpectedly somber. " _You're welcome_ ," he added snidely.

"Um...thanks?" The conversation was like shifting sand beneath Harry's feet. He was beginning to feel claustrophobic or maybe simply panicked; either way, the walls seemed too close and Draco's piercing stare too knowing. Harry had to get out of there. He made to leave and got all the way to the door before stopping to say, "I really did enjoy this time with you."

"And I, you, Harry," Draco responded from his seat, grey eyes unreadable. He seemed sincere, at least.

Harry nodded once and fled.

  

\------

  

 _That could have gone better_ , Draco thought in disgust. He ineffectually pushed his stupid thin hair (which refused to do anything but hang limply and fall in his eyes without the judicious application of pomade and magic) off his face until he realized he could spell it back now that Potter was gone.

It was a poor trade-off as far as he was concerned.

Salazar, Potter had fled the room like the hounds of hades were on his heels. And Draco was the one who had chased him out. He allowed himself the momentary indulgence of burying his face in his hands since no one was around to see the pathetic display.

Potter had admitted to finding him attractive, to wanting him, even, and what had Draco done? Sniped and sneered until Potter surely must have reconsidered his fool notion, despite the fact it was exactly what Draco had hoped for.

But why? Why would he sabotage his own desires?

Draco was sure a mindhealer would have a field day digging through his psyche for the answer to that question.

He was equally sure he would never willingly visit a mindhealer. He'd had quite enough people make unwelcome forays into his mind for one lifetime. Draco shuddered to recollect his occlumency 'lessons' with Aunt Bella--crazier than a bag of cats and twice as vicious, that one was. The best thing a Weasley had ever done, as far as Draco was concerned, was rid the world of his lunatic aunt.

Maybe the maddness was catching.

"No need to worry, Draco," came a voice from over his left shoulder.

Draco lept from his chair, drew his wand, and assumed a defensive stance in a single fluid maneuver he, unfortunately, had had plenty of opportunity to practice.

"Who's there?" he demanded, sweeping his gaze and wand across the room to find the interloper, forcing himself to remain calm and in control. His panic began to rise when the search revealed no one with him in the small space. Either he was losing his mind (possible) or the intruder had an invisibility cloak (plausible, especially with the Potter connection).

"Over here," came the unnerving disembodied voice, directly in front of him this time. Draco caught movement on the wall before him in the formerly empty picture frame--a smiling figure in half-moon spectacles waved from within.

" _Headmaster_?" he gaped, nearly dropping his wand.

"Not any longer, dear boy. That title belongs to Minerva now. You may call me Albus," the portrait replied goodnaturedly.

Draco reeled. "Ok," he responded weakly, at a loss for what else to say. He felt as though he had seen a ghost (but not the usual sort that roamed the castle's halls). The last time he and the Headmaster had spoken...

"Listen to me, Draco, for I have something important to say," the portrait spoke quietly, but commandingly.

Draco could not but comply.

When Dumbledore seemed satisfied with Draco's attention, he said simply, "I forgive you."

Draco choked on a sob as tears he refused to shed filled his eyes. "Headmaster..." He didn't even know what he wanted to say. This--it wasn't possible.

"Albus, child. Call me Albus," the portrait gently chided. "Each time you visited Minerva in her office I thought we'd be able to chat, but you always scurried out before I could tell you. I decided I'd have to come to you myself. So here we are." He stroked his prodigious beard and smiled down at Draco.

It was almost too much to bear. "Does Potter know you're here?" Draco asked for want of something better to say.

The Headmaster tut-tutted. "I thought you two were on a first name basis now."

"We are," Draco hastened to explain, desperately unwilling to suffer the man's disappointment for one moment more. "It's just going to take a bit of time to make the switch completely in my head. He has been Potter to me for as long as I have known him."

"Change _is_ difficult," Dumbledore affirmed. "I'm proud of you for embracing it, Draco."

Draco had nearly swallowed back his tears before the praise brought them rushing to return. Embarrassingly, they threatened to overflow. Draco scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Thank you...Albus," he managed to reply.

"Now, as I was saying before, there's no need to trouble yourself over Harry. He left in a hurry, yes, but he said he has thinking to do. When Harry says he will think something through, he means it. And I am confident his conclusions will be favorable to you."

Draco flushed, wondering just how much of their previous conversation the portrait had overheard.

"I won't trouble you again here, my boy," Dumbledore promised. He tapped the side of his crooked nose with an index finger. "I understand you and Harry value your privacy. I do hope the two of you will continue these, shall we say, 'lessons in humility'--I dare say they are better for the both of you than either one realizes."

Draco wondered what the man could possibly mean, but he wasn't given a chance to ask.

"Please visit me from time to time in the Headmistress's office. The life of a portrait can be quite dull, you know. I enjoy hearing from my students. And it warms my heart to finally see you happy, Draco," he concluded, eyes tender, before lifting his hand in farewell and striding out of the frame to Merlin-knows-where.

It was some minutes before Draco finally collected himself enough to leave the little room.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait, friends. I was knocked flat by a vicious head cold this week. But I'm on the mend (huzzah!) and that means you get a new chapter. 
> 
> Special shout out to those of you who have been loyally and vocally supportive of this story. You make the writing process so worthwhile, especially when I'm not feeling my best. <3

The first thing Harry did upon returning to his rooms was hurl a decorative vase to the ground in a fit of pique. The second thing he did was attempt a delicate _reparo_. The third was to declare his efforts a lost cause and dump the mangled vase in the bin (promising to apologize to Hannah for destroying his housewarming gift from the Longbottoms).

With the furious, snarling beast inside him temporarily sated, Harry stomped to his mantle, took a pinch of floo powder from the lopsided ceramic bowl Teddy had made for him last year, and tossed it in the fireplace with a call for the Library--Hermione and Ron's modest home, named for the tottering stacks of books that filled the place--hoping to catch Ron before he retired for the night.

"Ron? You there?" Harry waited several moments, impatiently rapping his knuckles on the stones of the hearth. "Ron!" he bellowed into the floo. (Ron frequently had the wireless turned up so loud he missed floo calls entirely. Harry didn't know how Hermione put up with it.)

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Ron's freckled face appeared in the flames; the green was particularly unflattering to his complexion. Still, his wide, easy grin was a welcome sight. "Harry! Good to see you, mate."

"We need to talk." Harry said, skipping the formality of a greeting. He sounded more grave than he had intended.

The smile disappeared from his best friend's face. "What is it? Has something happened?" Ron asked with wary apprehension, rapidly shifting to Auror mode.

"Yes, but it's not a serious as all that!" Harry held up his hands like he was calming a spooked horse.

Ron put his own hand to his chest and slumped in relief. "Bloody hell! You're going to send me to an early grave. I thought something terrible happened."

"I'm sorry I scared you," Harry apologized, feeling guilty for upsetting Ron. Honestly, he was acting like a ruddy teenager pouting and throwing fits and breaking things all because his hormones were out of control.

Ron waved off his apology. "All right, what is it then? Must be important for you to call at this hour."

That gave Harry pause. He hadn't even thought to check the time; it must be later than he realized for Ron to comment on it. And that made Harry feel like even more of a heel. He probably had pulled Ron out of bed, after all.

 _Well, the damage is done,_ Harry thought pragmatically, _so I may as well do what I set out to_. He would tell Ron he wanted to have a go at a relationship with Draco.

Harry felt the bottom of his stomach drop out at the thought. What if Ron was disgusted, revolted, angry? What if he shouted and cursed? What if this was the last straw for their friendship, which hadn't quite been the same ever since the divorce? 

Harry took a shaky breath. And then another. Ron was better than that, he knew. He could tell him. He would.

Any minute now.

"Harry?" Ron's worried voice cut through the fog. Harry realized he was nearly hyperventilating. "Mate, do I need to come through? You said it wasn't serious but you're acting like it bloody well is." Ron moved as if to enter the floo.

"No, it's ok!" Harry shook his head and tried to gather himself. " _I'm_ ok. I'm just having a bit of a freak out, is all," he said ruefully. "I wanted to, um, run some things by you."

Ron pulled a face. "Is this going to be a _feelings_ talk?" he asked uneasily, "I have to prepare myself if it's going to be a feelings talk."

"I'm afraid it is." Harry resisted snickering at Ron's discomfort over the notion, which actually helped steady him more than anything else had so far. Regardless, he needed to stay on Ron's good side as much as possible for what was coming next.

"Right," Ron said matter-of-factly, "Be right back."

He disappeared from the flames only to return a minute later with a glass in hand. Harry couldn't tell what he was drinking, but from the way Ron shuddered when he took a gulp, it must be strong.

"Ok," he said, giving Harry his full attention. "Ready now. Lay it on me."

Harry beamed. "You're a prince among men, Ron."

"I know," he grinned back, posturing regally. "Now tell me about your feelings--if you're sure you have to. We could always talk quidditch, if you'd rather," Ron offered hopefully.

"Sorry, mate, this one's unavoidable." Harry took a fortifying breath. "I think I'm ready to start dating again."

Ron looked thoughtful. "It has been nearly a year," he reasoned. "You're young and single, it only makes sense that--" He stopped abruptly, then paled, realization dawning. "Wait--you mean you're ready to start dating... _blokes_."

"Yeah, Ron, that's the general idea. What with me being gay and all." Harry rolled his eyes. He loved his best friend, really he did, but Ron could be unbelievably thick.

"Right, I know. Of course I know," Ron hurried to amend. "It's just easy to forget sometimes."

"Not for me, it isn't," Harry said gravely, somewhat offended. That inconvenient truth had upset all his plans for a perfect, happy little life free of the shadow of Voldemort and the bloody prophesy.

"No, I reckon not." Ron took another large swallow of his drink. "So...did you have someone in mind or are you just letting me know you're ready to start looking?" he asked, putting commendable effort into having the conversation out.

"I have someone in mind," Harry admitted, encouraged Ron had thought to ask. "And I'm afraid you aren't going to like it when you learn who."

"I didn't like it when you and Gin split up," Ron countered, a hint of bitterness in his tone. Those wounds were still raw.

Harry had only been to the Burrow once since Ginny moved out and it had been a painful, awkward affair with too much drinking, heated words, and tears all around. He'd ended up leaving early, begging off with a phony headache. He was pretty sure nobody was fooled, but they let him leave without argument anyway. He'd politely declined every one of Molly's invitations since. He missed Sunday dinners with his adoptive family, but even he wasn't brave enough to face that particular gauntlet again any time soon. Better to let the embers cool a while.

"But like I told you then," Ron continued, heedless of Harry's wandering thoughts, "that was between the two of you. I know you didn't make the decision lightly. And you didn't rush out to hook up with any bloke who fluttered his eyelashes at you or flexed his muscles or whatever turns you on, so I know you're not making this decision lightly either. I appreciate you letting me know, but it's not any of my business who you take to bed." Ron flushed at what he'd just said, but bravely soldiered on, "If you fancy someone enough to...I don't know, _make it official_ , then I'll get on board. You're my best mate. Just maybe try not to do too much groping where I can see you two going at it, yeah?"

Harry chuckled. "I don't know, Ron," he goaded. "He's really bloody fit. I might not be able to help myself."

Ron gave an exaggerated grimace and took another gulp, polishing off his glass.

In spite of the teasing, Harry was heartened by Ron's speech. But knew he had to tell the whole truth now or it would be that much worse later. "Here's the thing...it's Draco. Malfoy," he clarified (as if either one of them knew any other _Dracos_ ).

Ron's eyes went wide and he coughed and spluttered. Then he slapped his knee, laughing uproariously. "Good one, Harry! You really had me going for a minute there. _Malfoy_!" He snorted so hard he choked.

Harry glowered, annoyed and embarrassed both. "Ron, I'm serious! It's not a joke."

Ron sobered faster than if he'd been hit with a stinging jinx. He eyed Harry narrowly, appraising, and Harry struggled not to fidget under the weight of his stare.

He'd date whoever he damn well pleased with or without Ron's approval, but Godrick, he'd rather have it than not.

"You want to date Draco Malfoy," Ron said slowly.

Harry nodded.

"Are you sure you haven't been confunded or something? Maybe eaten some bad fish?"

Harry sighed. "I'm sure, Ron."

Ron scratched his head, fingers ruffling his shaggy hair. "Even though this isn't what I expected...honestly, I'm not all that surprised," he confessed after a brief contemplation. "Looking back on it, you've probably been half in love with him for years, haven't you?"

Harry was staggered by the accuracy of the insight. While Ron could be thick, he could also be incredibly keen when he set his mind to a problem. It was one of the things that made him such a great Auror.

"Yeah, I think so," Harry admitted to himself as much as Ron.

"And he's...um...reciprocating?" Ron asked carefully. He then completely undermined the effect by adding, "Merlin knows he's always been a right ponce, but I didn't realize he was playing Seeker for the same team as you."

Harry chose to ignore the color commentary. "Apparently he was out in school; it was news to me, too. But to answer your question: yes, he's 'reciprocating.' I still need to figure out how much, though--if he's just interested in a shag, that isn't going to happen. Tempting as the idea may be."

Ron blanched at the last comment. "Blimey, Harry! Give a man a chance to get used to an idea before you spring something like that on him!" he griped.

Harry couldn't resist teasing a bit more. "He _is_ really fit. And his hair is all smooth and shiny and his fingers are long and clever and his mouth is practically sinful--"

"I get it!" Ron yelped as he covered his ears with both hands. "Are you quite finished?" he asked, scowling.

" _Almost_. I haven't told you about his amazing phoenix tattoo yet." Harry cackled wickedly while Ron looked as if he might gag.

"You're a terrible person, you know that? You and Malfoy are perfect for each other," he deadpanned.

"Hah!" Harry was relieved Ron could joke about it, at least. That was a promising start. "You really are ok with it, then?" he asked nervously.

"I can't say I'm tickled by the idea," Ron answered honestly. "But you're a grown man and you can make your own choices. Just be sure this isn't some kind of evil trick on his part," he warned. "It _is_ rather sudden given that you punched him in his pointy ferret face less than a week ago."

Ron was right that it was sudden, but Harry's conversations with Draco since that ridiculous fight had been beyond intense. They'd covered a lot of ground in a short amount of time and Harry felt that neither one of them was quite the same man he had been at the start of the week. At the very least, their relationship had evolved for the better.

Harry didn't want to tell Ron about those conversations, though. They felt private, special. So he simply promised, "I'll be careful."

"You do that," Ron said solemnly. "Or I'll have to come over there and kick both your sorry arses."

 _He really_ _is_ _a great friend_ , Harry thought, grinning in spite of himself.

Now he just had to figure out if a certain Slytherin was open to being wooed. 


	18. Chapter 18

The next morning, Draco was minding his business, eating his porridge and toast and not paying any mind to the notable absence of a bespectacled someone at the High Table (it _was_ unusual, though; for all that Potter appeared underfed, he seldom missed a meal), when the empty chair to his left scraped across the floor.

Expecting Sinistra, Draco was startled by the low voice that asked, "Is this seat taken?"

He glanced up sharply to find himself facing the very object of his not-thoughts, who was smiling uncertainly at him with one hand resting on the back of the chair. And damned if he didn't look a touch more presentable than usual.

Perhaps more than a touch.

Ok, he looked bloody _fantastic_ , and that was cosmically unfair when Draco had been doing such a bang up job of eating his breakfast and **not** fixating on the man.

Potter was resplendent in rich dark chocolate, high-collared robes (sumptuous alepine, if Draco was not mistaken, and he almost never was when it came to fabrics), that added warmth to his complexion and sparkle to his already-luminous eyes. And, wonder of all wonders, he had paired the robes with glossy black, mid-calf, dragon-leather boots (Auror-dress, most likely) instead of his horrible trainers; Draco could only hope the latter had been vanished, or at least burned to ash. A thick silver shield ring set with an unobtrusive emerald glittered on Potter's right pinky. Even his wild mane seemed somewhat tamed and was combed away from his iconic scar, for once.

The effect was stunning.

From the pointing and murmuring that accompanied Potter's arrival, Draco wasn't the only one who noticed.

He felt a sharp, bitter surge of possessive jealousy that had no business being in his heart--Harry wasn't his, after all.

Salazar, but Draco wanted to change that, to stake his claim here and now in front of the whole school, lest any naysayers remain unconvinced.

It was a very un-Malfoy-like impulse. But then, Draco had never been a model Malfoy, despite his best efforts to the contrary.

At least he could invite Harry to sit and put paid to the poor sod's anxious shuffling.

"By all means," he extended his hand in welcome and smiled warmly. Harry beamed and took the proffered seat.

With a start, Draco realized he had been calling him _Harry_ in his head.

Was so simple a thing as a wardrobe change really all it took to engender the dramatic mental shift? Draco hated to reckon himself that shallow (though Harry did look especially fine).

Draco decided he couldn't help but think somewhat differently about the man in light of the fact he was contemplating peeling him out of those excellent robes at the absolute earliest opportunity.

Preferably in the next five minutes.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked softly after Harry had seated himself. His tone was unabashedly provocative, particularly in the last word.

Harry shivered. At least Draco wasn't the only one affected, then.

"I've found myself enjoying your conversation lately," Harry leaned in to murmer, ostensibly to prevent others from overhearing, although he wasn't exactly being subtle about his attentions. "I decided I'd like to enjoy it somewhere besides our secret meeting room."

Harry's nearness and talk of _enjoyment_ and _their_ secret room was wreaking havoc on Draco's pulse rate.

"I won't begrudge you that," he replied coyly, "but Sinistra may be aggrieved to find you in her seat when she arrives."

Harry gave a self-satisfied smirk. "Sinistra is currently in her room eating a surprise breakfast of several of her favorite foods made and delivered by the house-elves. She won't be missing her chair this morning," he declared.

"Harry Potter, utilizing Hogwarts resources and the goodwill of the house-elves for your own selfish ambitions? That is downright Slytherin of you," Draco pretended dismay. In truth, he was both flattered and impressed. He hadn't realized Harry capable of that kind of scheming; such machinations were usually beyond the ken of simple-minded Gryffindors.

"Want to know a secret?" Harry purred seductively, eyes shining and mouth smirking still.

Who was this sultry, confident man and what had he done with the blushing, stuttering Harry who'd run from Draco's come-ons not twelve hours prior? Draco's equilibrium was thrown by the change. He was not about to complain, though; not with Harry grinning wicked promise scant inches away.

"Always," Draco answered, much more self-assuredly than he felt.

Harry closed the small distance between them and whispered, breath hot on Draco's ear, "I was supposed to be sorted Slytherin." He pulled back, scanning Draco's face for reaction.

It was embarrassingly long moments before Draco could give one. Whether from the scintillating tease or the impossible fact Harry had divulged, Draco's brain temporarily malfunctioned.

"I find that hard to believe," he responded eventually. It was a tremendous understatement.

"It's true!" Harry exclaimed, then caught himself and continued more quietly, "The Sorting Hat said that's where I should go but I begged it to put me anywhere else."

Draco scowled, house pride wounded. "Why would you do that?" he asked, genuinely baffled by the notion someone might _want_ to be sorted anything other than Slytherin.

"I heard that a lot of dark wizards came from Slytherin," Harry explained. "I didn't want to be a part of that heritage."

"That may be true, but not _all_ dark wizards are Slytherin," Draco countered. "There was that ritualistic killer just last Christmas who ended up being a Ravenclaw. He claimed he had done it for 'research'."

Harry grimaced. "Don't remind me. I worked that case. Gave me nightmares for weeks."

"Oh, I didn't know," Draco said apologetically. He would not have imagined Harry to be so affected by a case, nor that he could admit it so freely. It gave him yet more insight into what had previously been the puzzle of Harry's unexpected career change.

"No worries," Harry replied breezily, finally serving himself a heaping portion of eggs, several rashers of bacon, four pieces of generously buttered toast, and a tall glass of pumpkin juice.

"At any rate," Draco continued, eyeing the extravagant breakfast and wondering where (besides possibly wizardspace) Harry put all that food, "plenty of good and noble wizards are sorted Slytherin, as well. Merlin himself, arguably the greatest wizard of all time and confirmed muggle-supporter to the end, was a Slytherin."

"Are you trying to convince _me_ or my eleven-year-old self?" Harry challenged, not unkindly, "Because _I_ don't need convincing and I'm afraid the ship has sailed for the younger me." He tucked into his meal then, but didn't take his eyes off Draco.

Draco was appropriately chagrined. "Point taken. I forget that not everyone still holds to the black-and-white biases of our youth."

Manners dictated he return to his own meal so his conversation partner was not eating in solitude, but Draco's stomach rebelled at the thought. He made a show of nibbling the corner of a piece of toast since manners were not to be ignored.

"Be that as it may," Harry said after swallowing a bite Draco was certain he hadn't chewed but twice, "I understand that plenty of people have held on to those biases and you Slytherins have had more than your fair share of that shite heaped upon you. It's not as if I'm totally innocent, either."

Draco was unexpectedly moved that Harry would say anything charitable about Slytherins as a whole; after all, his house hadn't exactly performed admirably in the war.

"That is generous of you to say," he acknowledged, "and I appreciate it."

Harry grinned and shoveled another forkful of eggs into his mouth. Draco was disturbed, but oddly transfixed.

Finally unable to stand the gnawing curiosity any longer, he gave voice to the question he had wondered for years, "Why is it that you eat like a man half-starved?"

Harry paused, fork midair with another large bite that had been en route to his face in spite of the fact its predecessor was still being chewed. He set down the fork, swallowed, and cleared his throat. His eyes skittered away from Draco's, who immediately regretted his question for seemingly extinguishing Harry's newfound confidence with him. A faint blush colored Harry's cheeks and Draco realized, with another guilty pang, it was the first time Harry had blushed that morning.

Harry ran a hand through his hair, effectively destroying whatever attempt at style he had accomplished, but said, "I'll tell you what. You win tonight's game and I'll answer your question." He graced Draco with a small, tentative smile.

Draco felt a brilliant flash of hope. " _Tonight's_ game?" he asked, arching a brow and smiling with half his mouth in return.

"Yeah. You're not busy, are you?"

Draco had never considered himself one to be undone by puppy dog eyes, and yet, "No, I'm not busy," he heard himself say (even though he damn well was).

Harry's small smile transformed into a wide grin and Draco thought to hell with the marking he'd planned on doing.

"Will you at least tell me why you're dressed so well?" he asked playfully. "There aren't reporters or visiting dignitaries coming to the school that no one warned me about, are there?"

Harry swallowed nervously, but then he nodded. His eyes took on the steely glint Draco knew had felled scores of enemies.

Inside, Draco's heart of hearts rejoiced at the return of Harry's magnetic confidence.

Other parts of him took notice, as well. 

Harry leaned forward once again to breathe warmly on the side of Draco's face. Beneath the table, his palm found Draco's thigh and squeezed as he whispered, "Because I am _wooing_ you, Draco Malfoy."

Harry punctuated the announcement with a quick, hot flick of his tongue against the shell of Draco's ear, and Draco's world exploded in a riot of sensation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¡Ay caramba! Is it hot in here or is it just me? ;)


	19. Chapter 19

With considerable effort (which Harry was only able to muster in deference to the other occupants of the Great Hall and a meager nod to propriety), he pulled himself away from the temptation of Draco's skin. He let his hand linger on the man's lean thigh a moment longer, however. Harry could feel the muscles bunched and taught beneath his palm and he gave in to the impulse to knead them one last time through the fabric of Draco's trousers before regretfully returning his hand to his own lap.

Draco's eyes, when Harry could meet them again, were molten silver, the black pupils blown wide and ringed by metallic irises. Small spots of color rode high on Draco's prominent cheekbones. His lips were slightly parted and he appeared to be panting--just barely but Harry noticed and his heart sang with triumph in response.

That wasn't the only response his body gave. Merlin, but this was becoming an inconvenient trend. Fortunately, the stuffy robes he'd worn to catch Draco's eye--thanks to _Ron's_ advice, of all things--afforded him a measure of privacy. And Draco seemed quite taken with them, so it was a win-win...except for the scratchy fabric, too-tight collar, and uncomfortable way the garment pulled on his shoulders. ( _How could anyone actually_ prefer _these things?_ )

Blinking away his daze, Draco fixed Harry with a flashing stare. "Be forewarned," he breathed, posh accent gone rough, raspy, and impossibly sexy, "if you try something like that again, I will not be held accountable for my actions. Audience or no."

Harry inhaled sharply, white-hot desire burning through his veins.

"Is that supposed to be a threat?" he teased, his own voice husky with want.

Draco didn't flinch. "It is a promise."

Harry warred with himself over daring Draco to make good on the bluff. The High Table at meal time wasn't Harry's first choice of locations to consummate their relationship but it seemed more tolerable by the moment. Especially with the feral way Draco looked at him, like he might actually be up for it.

In the end, Harry's better judgement won out. Narrowly.

Good thing, too, because Minerva took that opportunity to startle the both of them nearly out of their chairs.

Having approached as silently as she would in her feline form, Minerva firmly placed an arthritic hand on each of their shoulders (causing both men to jump several inches), leaned between them, and murmured in her light Scottish brogue, "Gentlemen, I am pleased to see you working through your differences, but I entreat you to remain mindful of the impressionable young students currently in attendance as well as the hardworking house-elves who would be forced to clean up the mess should you continue on the course you apparently have set this morning."

Draco goggled. Harry spluttered. Somewhere down the table Neville howled with laughter. Minerva gave each of them a quick pat and continued on her way out the Great Hall without another word.

Harry wondered if today would be the day he finally died from embarrassment.

Long seconds passed in awkward silence until Draco cleared his throat. The pinched lines around his mouth and between his brows were the only indication of his agitation. If only Harry could be so lucky. _His_ cheeks prickled and burned with what he knew must be a brilliant flush that could probably be seen all the way from the main entrance.

"That may have been more effective than Longbottom's famed _aguamenti_ ," Draco muttered, compulsively straightening his silverware.

Harry snorted and relaxed a bit. "At least now I have a new tactic to try on students making eyes at each other in the back of my classroom. Some might even swear off dating altogether."

Draco smirked. " _You're_ not considering that, I hope."

Though he'd delivered it jokingly, Harry thought he picked up trace anxiety in Draco's tone.

"Me? Never!" Harry replied with suitable bravado. "I'm a Gryffindor, remember--it's going to take more than a spot of willy-wilting terror to scare me off for good," he claimed, trying for a winsome grin.

Draco's shoulders shook with silent laughter and a fleeting smile erased the creases that had marred his lovely face.

Improbably, that was all Harry needed to completely forget his earlier mortification; his mind didn't have room for other thoughts when it was so occupied by Draco.

"Well," Draco looked sideways at Harry, "this has been an... _enlightening_ breakfast."

Harry beamed; "enlightening" wasn't on the list of words he might use to describe the morning, but it was just so _Draco_ to call it that he found it charming. And the fact Draco hadn't scoffed at Harry's declaration of intent meant he was at least open to the idea. Harry could work with open; indeed, he felt as though he could float away on a warm sea of optimism.

Draco broke Harry's reverie by announcing, "I should go prepare for my lessons," but he made no move to leave.

Harry eyed his plate, still a third full. "Yeah. I should probably shove off, too," he replied, deciding to forgo the remainder of his meal. He'd lost his appetite anyway.

Draco glanced at Harry and then away again. "I am looking forward to our engagement this evening," he admitted sweetly, almost shyly, then rose to leave.

Harry briefly calculated exactly how much trouble he'd be in if he blatantly ignored Minerva's warning. More than it was worth, probably; though he was sorely tempted to snog the living daylights out of Draco right then and there.

"Me, too," he echoed instead, craning his neck to look at Draco and grinning broadly. "I'm planning to put your cocky boast to the test with a new game tonight. Be sure you play to win," he challenged.

Draco's smile turned positively predatory as he looked down on Harry, who had to suppress a shudder at the novel (and thrilling) sensation of being captive prey. "I _always_ play to win," Draco said slowly, emphatically. He let the tips of his fingers graze Harry's arm when he strode from the table.

The shudder _that_ elicited could not be concealed.

\------

"I hear Albus finally managed to corner you," Severus drawled, unexpectedly breaking the meditative silence in which Draco had been working for the past hour--the sneaky bastard's favorite pastime was attempting to trick Draco into ruining his potions. "He has been talking of nothing else all day," he goaded.

Draco didn't pause his careful stirring of the Draught of Peace he was brewing as a favor to Pomfrey. She had asked for help replenishing the medical wing's stores, which had been severely depleted during quidditch tryouts. ( _Oh, to be young again._ Draco could scarcely remember when quidditch had been among his chief concerns.) It was a finicky potion, as Severus well knew, and Draco refused to be distracted into spoiling this attempt.

"Severus, you know I don't like it when you don't announce your presence," he scolded, adding powdered moonstone to the blue potion until it turned vibrant purple and setting it to simmer. Watching out of the corner of his eye for the pink hue that indicated the potion was ready for the syrup of hellebore, he turned his attention to his godfather who shrugged insolently from his post opposite the potions cabinet in Draco's lab.

One of the first things Draco had done upon being named Hogwarts' Potions Master was to commission a second portrait of Severus. Draco liked having him nearby to consult with on his experiments and more challenging brews; he also appreciated his company, poor substitute that it was for the real man. Severus' portrait lacked his godfather's acuity and depth, but he retained a semblance of his dry humour and fondness for Draco, as well as his encyclopedic knowledge of potions and the...less studied arts, so he was a welcome presence. Most of the time.

Today, however, Draco had decided to take his lunch in the lab rather than risk another unsettling encounter with Harry before their evening appointment. The excitement of breakfast had rendered Draco unacceptably flighty in his morning classes, to the point he had even cracked a cauldron by absentmindedly leaving the flame too high. (He then asked the class to diagnose the cause of the small explosion as though he had orchestrated the embarrassing mistake to be a clever teaching demonstration; the ensuing discussion went rather well, actually, and he intended to repeat the exercise with his second years that afternoon.)

If Severus was here to harass Draco about his budding relationship with Harry, as Draco suspected based on the oblique reference to last night's conversation with Dumbledore, it would do serious harm to the calm focus he had finally managed to achieve. So, like any good Malfoy when faced with a cunning and dangerous adversary, Draco went on the offensive.

"Did you have a purpose in mentioning the former Headmaster or was it simply more of your senile ramblings?" he asked snidely, adding the hellebore to his now-pink mixture until it turned turquoise, and waiting for the potion to simmer back to purple.

Severus eyed the cauldron skeptically. "Are you entirely certain you used the correct amount of hellebore? The color looks more aquamarine than turquoise to me," he claimed, attempting to sow insidious seeds of doubt. "You know the dire consequences of mis-brewing the Draught of Peace given that it is in the same family as the Draught of Living Death."

Draco smirked. Severus was barely even trying. That meant he was here out of concern rather than simply to amuse himself at Draco's expense. "I'm certain," he said firmly, but added, "I had an excellent teacher."

Severus' perpetually sour face softened at the edges. The change was nearly imperceptible but Draco knew what to look for.

He added powdered porcupine quills to the cauldron and set about babying the potion through the rapid succession of final steps: stir, more quills, simmer, unicorn horn, stir, simmer, moonstone, simmer, even more quills, simmer, then crossing one's fingers for the silvery vapour that indicated a draught well done.

His godfather waited quietly through the process for a change. Absurdly, it seemed as though he wanted Draco to start the conversation.

As a man, Severus had been possessed of an extraordinary wealth of patience. As a portrait, it was increased tenfold. Either Draco could answer his unspoken question now or he would answer it later. Not answering it was not an option if he ever wanted to speak to his godfather again. 

With his back to Severus and his hands busy, Draco took a breath and said, "Yes, Harry and I are--" _what?_ Not dating. Not courting. Not sleeping together ( _yet_ ). Circling around each other like jungle cats was the closest approximation but Severus wouldn't appreciate the simile. "Seeing each other," Draco settled on, though he was unsatisfied by the expression. "And, for the record, you portraits are a bunch of tongue-wagging gossipmongers gathering dust and stories in equal measure."

"And _you_ , ill-mannered child, are a spoiled whelp who needs to learn respect for the wisdom and counsel of his elders," Severus rejoined. Draco grinned into his cauldron; the portrait was just a facsimile of his godfather, it was true, but sometimes he was so much like him it was easy to forget.

"So you have said. Please notify me if you should encounter any of these wise elders. I would very much like to hear their counsel."

Draco snickered at the grumbling coming from the portrait as he added the powdered unicorn horn to the cauldron.

"At least tell me this, brat," Severus enjoined, "if you consider yourself so clever, what in Salazar's name are you doing with _Potter_? He is beneath your station in every way, and he is an arrogant, entitled, selfish brute, besides."

Draco risked glancing away from his potion to gently challenge, "Which Potter are you talking about, Uncle?"

Severus winced.

"Like father, like son," he retorted petulantly.

Draco turned back to his brewing just in time to add the moonstone. "I hope for my sake," he said over his shoulder, "you don't truly believe that."

Draco left Severus to sort through the implications of his claim.

Several minutes passed in silence while Draco completed his potion. The next time he looked up, the portrait was empty.

Draco wasn't concerned. Severus would return; he always did. In a manner of speaking, anyway.

A silver mist filled the air as Draco bussed his workspace, humming a song his mother used to sing to him when he was small.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 200+ kudos and well more than 50 comments from readers?! You guys are just so sweet. I'm trying my darnedest to make this story good for you. And, would you look at that: we're awfully close to Valentine's Day, aren't we? I bet I can plan something special for the boys to celebrate ;)

Harry scanned the Great Hall for what felt like the hundredth time. Still no sign of Draco. He'd missed lunch and now dinner, too. Harry didn't know what to make of it. He fretted as he halfheartedly poked at his meal.

Neville clapped him hard on the back. "Cheer up, mate. He's probably just primping. I saw the way he looked at you at breakfast--that was not the look of a man who is going to stand you up. I think a few girls sitting nearest to the High Table actually fainted from the sexual tension coming off you two."

Harry snorted. "Was it really that bad? I went kinda tunnel-visioned for a minute there," he admitted sheepishly.

"Let me put it this way: I was already drawing my wand by the time Minerva got to you." Neville patted the robe pocket in which his wand resided.

"You weren't really!" Harry exclaimed.

Neville nodded earnestly. "I swear on the sword of Gryffindor, I was _this close_ ," he held up his thumb and forefinger nearly touching, "to hosing you down like a couple of randy crups."

Harry groaned and dropped his head onto the table in the pillow of his arms.

"Minerva's solution was less dramatic," Neville mused, "but I'll give her this: the looks on your faces were absolutely priceless. It's going in the pensieve, mate; I think it might even be my new patronus memory."

"You're a right comedian, Nev," Harry mumbled into his sleeves.

"I am a man of many talents," he replied with mock seriousness. "Now perk up, get up, and get out of here--you've a date to get to."

Harry felt a ridiculous surge of butterflies at the notion but did as Neville instructed. Still, "It's not really a date," he muttered inanely.

Neville gave him a withering stare. "And Merlin was actually a muggle," he retorted.

Harry chuckled and left to meet his fate, with a parting wink and grin from his friend.

After a quick stop in the loo to relieve himself, make sure his robes were on straight, and try (with limited success) to spell his rebellious hair into submission, Harry entered the secret room only to find Draco had beaten him there.

He froze with his hand on the door jamb while his brain struggled to catch up.

"You changed," he said stupidly.

"I did," Draco confirmed, sides of his mouth lifting in the small, private smile Harry adored.

He lounged casually in his chair, long legs crossed at the ankles, and a wineglass held loosely by the stem. (The wine was red, beyond that Harry had no hope of identifying it.) Draco was dressed unlike Harry had ever seen him in a soft-looking dark blue turtleneck jumper and slim cream-colored slacks with well-coordinated dark brown loafers. He looked relaxed and self-assured and more...approachable than Harry was used to.

Harry smiled and crossed the room to take his seat. "I like it, but I feel overdressed now," he said, gesturing to his formal robes. He went to unfasten them but Draco cut him off with a stern, "Don't you dare." Harry raised an eyebrow in question, hands still poised to rid him of the frightfully restrictive garment.

"If I can dress like a muggle for you," Draco reasoned, "the least you can do is look the part of a proper wizard for the rest of the evening for me."

Harry beamed. "You dressed up for me, did you?"

"Of course I did," Draco dismissed like it was obvious, "but don't go fishing for compliments--it's crass."

Harry snorted and sat down. He tried to figure out why Draco's supercilious attitude, which he found irritating and obnoxious before, was almost endearing to him now. Maybe it was because he understood the nuances better. Draco didn't think himself superior full stop, but he acted like it to hide his insecurities. He also used it jokingly, almost self-deprecatingly, if you could look at it with an eye for irony. Ok, he _also_ thought he was superior to most other wizards, but still, there was so much more to Draco than Harry had ever realized. He'd seen the mask Draco presented to the world and bought the lie, even as he nursed a secret crush. _Well not anymore_ , he resolved.

While Harry arranged all the unnecessary fabric of the robes around himself, Draco poured him some wine. He then held the glass out to Harry, but when he went to take the it, Draco held on. He looked Harry square in the eye and admonished, "This is an elf-made syrah from the Malfoy private reserve and it has been on this earth longer than you have. It is meant to be _savored_ , not gulped."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I know how to drink wine, Draco. I'm not completely uncivilized."

Draco released the glass. "I am yet unconvinced of that fact," he said.

" _Prat_ ,"Harry replied, but took a delicate sip anyway.

He allowed the wine to roll over his tongue and tried to discern what made it so special. Draco watched him critically all the while.

The initial flavor was spicy and intense. As it settled, he could pick out hints of wild fruit--black currant, maybe. The overall taste was earthy and dark, more bitter than sweet. Not everyone would like this wine but Harry was pleasantly surprised to find he did.

"It's nice," he said, and meant it. Draco looked pleased.

"Now try this," Draco commanded, producing a small white plate with what appeared to be a single fancy chocolate on it.

Feeling unusually compliant, Harry did as Draco said without protest (even though he typically didn't prefer chocolate and pretty much never liked being told what to do).

When he bit into the morsel, he had to close his eyes at the rich burst of flavor that assaulted his senses. He might even have moaned (but who could be sure). The chocolate was fantastic--smooth and creamy, not too sweet but enough to qualify as a decadent dessert, and as dark and intense as the wine. In fact, they seemed to enhance one another.

He opened his eyes to find Draco smirking at him. "Good, isn't it?" he asked.

"It's bloody _brilliant_ ," Harry corrected.

"That is from Debauve et Gallais, the oldest and finest chocolatier in Paris and one-time exclusive supplier of the French court, care of Pansy, who sends her warm regards," Draco informed, seamlessly transitioning into and out of a perfect French accent.

He then leaned over, plucked the half-bitten chocolate from Harry's fingers, and popped it into his thieving mouth.

" _Hey_!" Harry complained, pouting, "I wanted that."

Draco licked a smudge of chocolate off his own thumb in a way that nearly had Harry's eyes crossing with lust and Harry promptly forgot what he had been complaining about.

"I have a whole box in my bedroom," Draco enticed.

"Tempting," Harry replied (he meant that, too), "but Neville and Ron both have money riding on this game and they will be sorely put out if we don't settle a winner."

He brandished a deck of cards, the packaging of which was magenta with a gold triple W emblazoned on the front. "But, um," he cleared his throat, "remind me afterwards?"

Draco flashed a grin. "I will," he promised. Then, glancing at the box, "I learned a long time ago never to trust a Wheeze. What game are you playing at, Potter?"

"It's Potter now, is it?" Harry retorted cheekily.

"It is if you're trying to cheat," Draco fired back, looking dubiously at the cards as Harry arranged them on the table.

"It's just exploding snap," Harry reassured, "...with one tiny twist," he mumbled under his breath.

"And what might that be, exactly?" Draco asked, crossing his arms.

"Er...well, they don't explode."

"So it's just 'snap', then?" Draco replied sardonically.

Harry flushed. "Actually, it's...um," he coughed, " _strip_ snap."

Draco's pale brows rose up to his hairline.

Harry feared he had made a terrible miscalculation and hurried to explain, "It was a gift from George," an off-color wedding present, in point of fact, but Draco didn't need to know that. "I've never played it before. Apparently it's one of their more popular games. It's a standard self-shuffling deck but it's been charmed to remove an article of clothing from the person who scores the fewest points each round. George assured me the clothes aren't vanished or anything; they're supposed to appear next to your opponent so you can count up who has the most at the end of the game to determine the winner."

Harry was pretty sure that had been more coherent than his usual flustered babbling, but he held his breath waiting for Draco's response all the same. 

By the time he'd finished talking, Draco's brows were back in their regular position (with the left one raised just so) and a roguish grin slowly spread across his face.

"And here I am without my robes," Draco responded archly. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you orchestrated the events of this entire day just so you would have the advantage of more clothing, but that seems too clever by half even for someone who was supposed to be sorted Slytherin."

Harry was only too happy to take advantage of this golden opportunity.

"You're absolutely right!" he exclaimed. "It _is_  unfair for me to start out with more clothes than you. I'll fix that right now!"

And he merrily stripped off the horrible robes, ignoring Draco's moue of disappointment.

It was quickly replaced by speculative appreciation, anyway. Even Harry thought he looked good in the tailored emerald green dress shirt and snug, flat-fronted brown trousers Hermione had helped him pick out for Luna and Rolf's whimsical forest wedding.

Hermione had pronounced the slacks particularly flattering to his arse--her exact words were, "The view from behind is excellent. Don't tell Ron, I said that."--so Harry made sure to face away from Draco (and arch his back more than was, strictly speaking, necessary) when he folded the robes over the back of his chair.

"I suppose I can tolerate this compromise. In the spirit of fairness," Draco drawled, obviously looking Harry up and down.

Harry shivered under the heated gaze.

It would be a challenge to focus on the cards with Draco staring at him like he wanted to devour him whole. And that was while they were both still fully dressed.

This was sure to be an interesting game.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, folks, this is a heavier chapter. I felt the content had to be addressed, but please heed a possible trigger warning for descriptions of canonical child abuse. (Don't worry, it comes around in the end.)

"So how is this game supposed to work with the question-and-answer portion of our evening?" Draco asked, surreptitiously checking Harry out.

If he was capable of dressing like _this_ , perhaps his fashion sense wasn't a total lost cause. Draco certainly hadn't expected Harry's under-robe outfit to be as scrumptious as the robes themselves. Harry seemed to know it, too, with the way he was strutting like a peacock. Which, when he leaned over the back of his chair to such excellent effect, Draco found himself not minding overmuch.

"I was thinking we could just take turns asking questions between rounds," Harry replied, taking his seat. Draco briefly mourned the loss of the view but cheered himself with a reminder of what was to come. "I also thought it might be best to do the harder questions nearer the beginning. I don't know about you, but I'd prefer not to talk about my shitty childhood in nothing but my pants."

Draco couldn't resist, "Do you expect to do so poorly in the game _you_ selected?" he teased. Harry just smiled, so Draco answered sincerely, "That is a fair consideration. And I am inclined to agree."

"Ok," Harry said, bracing himself, "you asked a question at breakfast I promised to answer tonight so if it's all the same to you I'd rather just get that out of the way now."

"Certainly," Draco responded, gesturing for Harry to do so. He picked his wineglass up off the table and took a swallow, grateful he had something more palatable than harsh firewhiskey to drink.

A sense of foreboding descended as Harry looked down at hands that were so tightly clasped they'd gone white in the knuckles. If Draco had known the reason was something this distressing, he wouldn't have asked the impertinent question.

...No, he would have; his curiosity was a tenacious thing. But he'd have been more tactful, at least.

"Right," Harry said decisively, gripping his armrests and leveling a piercing stare at Draco. "I'm only going to say this once and I'm not going to answer any other questions on the subject and I don't want _you_ to say anything about it tonight or ever. Got it?"

"Got it," Draco echoed, making sure his face remained smooth and neutral even as dread constricted his heart.

Harry began haltingly. "The muggles who raised me--my mother's family--they were...unkind to me. They didn't want me. They hate magic and wizards and everything 'abnormal,' so you can probably imagine I wasn't a particularly welcome presence in their home."

Harry took a breath. Draco held his, knowing in the pit of his stomach the next revelation would be worse than the first. "I lived in a cupboard under the stairs until I was eleven." Harry spoke with eyes downcast and fingers fidgeting as though he were ashamed of the fact; as though a _child_ could have any control over such cruel circumstances.

A lesser man would have gasped. Draco merely clenched his jaw.

Harry went on. "I met Hagrid on my eleventh birthday and I got my Hogwarts letter and found out I was a wizard and there was a reason all this weird stuff kept happening around me. That was probably the best day of my life." Harry gave a bittersweet smile. "For the first time, I had a reason to hope for something better. It turns out the Wizarding world wasn't all it was cracked up to be, but here we are." He shrugged, the apathetic gesture jarringly incongruent with the content of his speech.

_He hadn't even known? No one had bothered to tell the Chosen One about his magical heritage or his destiny? _

A quiet rage began to boil in Draco's heart and his mouth filled with the hot-sour taste of shame. Hogwarts was meant to be Harry's sanctuary, a place he could feel free and safe and well cared for, and Draco had done everything in his power to make Harry's life miserable out of the pettiness of spite and wounded pride. He hadn't known the terrible secret Harry carried--it seemed very few people did--but possessing the knowledge would not likely have altered his deplorable behavior. To his younger self's dishonour, he probably would have used it to torment Harry further.

"After that, I got my own bedroom because the Dursleys didn't want anyone asking uncomfortable questions," Harry continued, "but it still had bars on the windows and locks on the outside of the door. They basically treated me like a house-elf--I cooked and cleaned and gardened, but they didn't want to acknowledge my existence and..." Harry closed his eyes.

Draco almost didn't want to hear the rest, but he had to. His skin crawled with the need. (And he fairly burned with fury, but that was best ignored for the time being.) Draco waited quietly while Harry composed himself.

"They punished me sometimes," he said in a meek little voice that was completely out of place on the brash, confident, powerful man. For a moment, Harry looked as though he might be ill, but he pressed on. "Never anything truly horrible like beatings or burnings or that kind of thing, but Uncle Vernon would cuff me on the ear or Aunt Petunia would swat me with a kitchen spoon and my cousin Dudley beat me up a few times. Usually, though, they would just give me extra chores and lock me in the cupboard or my room and...withhold food."

"They _starved_ you?!" Draco exploded, unable to contain any longer the violent mixture of hatred, sorrow, and disbelief that churned his gut.

"Sometimes," Harry answered simply, softly. "But, please remember, no questions. This is hard enough for me to get through as it is."

Draco quickly leashed his vengeful feelings as he learned to do long ago. (The skill had proved invaluable when living with a deadly madman and his psychotic followers.) "I'm sorry. I won't say another word," he vowed, although his mind raced with questions that begged to be asked. _Who knew about this? Why was it allowed to continue? Why, in Salazar's name, did Harry stay?_ and, most pertinently, _Where is the current residence of these villainous swine?_

Harry cleared his throat. "You probably want to know why I didn't just leave at some point."

Draco nodded, utterly transfixed, and bit his cheek to keep from saying anything.

"The magic that saved me when Voldemort tried to kill me the first time was the product of my mother's love," Harry explained, almost clinically. "Because of that, its protection was extended when I lived with her blood relatives. Dumbledore believed that was the safest place for me to be. He also thought it would be better for me to grow up outside of the limelight in the Wizarding world. I honestly don't know how things would've turned out if it had been different and I try not to spend much time thinking about it since it isn't possible to change the past.

"Ron and Hermione are the only other people who know all of that." Harry rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly bashful. "I've told some of it to a few others and I figure some have been able to put the pieces together, but it's not something I care to discuss. I've put it behind me as much as someone can, I think. I haven't seen the Dursley's since the war and I don't know where they are now and I'd like to keep it that way.

"As for lasting effects, I don't have too many, really. A couple small scars, but I've collected worse over the years. The way I eat, which you've noticed, obviously. Hermione was the one who connected those dots for me. She thinks it's the reason I'm so short since my dad was over six feet and my mum was on the tallish side, too, but I'm just 5'4". 'Likely product of childhood malnourishment,' she says. It maybe also accounts for my poor vision. I can be a bit claustrophobic sometimes, too, but that's from the cupboard, not the food," Harry seemed to consult an invisible list of symptoms. "Um, that's most of it, I guess."

He tugged his fringe over his scar. _Trying to hide that which marks him as "abnormal," perhaps?_ Draco had much to think on. Later. For now he used his occlumency training to wrap the information up in a tidy little package and tuck it into a corner of his mind to be taken out and examined another time.

With the memory, so went the most tumultuous of his emotions, which was a relief. But he still needed to reply somehow, in spite of Harry's edict at the outset.

Draco stood and crossed the small space between them in two short strides. Harry's eyes widened and he gulped. Draco suppressed a smirk.

"What are you--" Harry was unable to finish the question because Draco stooped over him, bracing one hand on the back of the chair and using the other to tilt Harry's head up with a gentle grip on his chin, and kissed him soundly.

It was nothing more than a chaste press of lips but Draco's skin tingled from the electric contact. Initially Harry was stiff and unyielding, but he melted into the kiss with a whimper that set Draco's nerves aflame. One moment more was all Draco could allow before his self control was stretched beyond its limits.

He pulled away to look Harry in the eyes. They were soft and unfocused, to Draco's great pleasure.

Harry took a shuddering breath. "What was that for?" he asked, stunned.

"You told me not to say anything about it," Draco answered coyly, caressing Harry's jaw with his thumb and enjoying the scrape of stubble.

Harry's brow furrowed in confusion, but Draco could see the slow dawn understanding.

"Thanks," Harry said eventually with a lopsided grin.

Draco released Harry's chin to comb his fingers through black hair that was softer than it looked (but just as thick) and set to rights the damage Harry had done with his anxious tugging. He then gave in to an embarrassingly Hufflepuff urge and kissed Harry lightly on the forehead before returning to his seat.

Harry gaped at him.

"Are we ever going to play cards or are you just going to sit there starting at me all night?" Draco prodded.

Harry snapped out of his stupor. "Prepare to lose the shirt off you back, Malfoy," he threatened, eyes twinkling.

"The same goes for you, _Harry_."


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look out, the rating on this bad boy has been upgraded to M. And that means a very happy Valentine's Day from me to all of you ;)  
> Much love! <3

Harry fought to appear as casual and unaffected as Draco, even though it was a far cry from how he felt inside. Draco had kissed him--kissed him!--like it was the simplest thing and then had gone and smiled into his eyes and straightened his hair and kissed him again with such tenderness Harry had nearly gotten choked up.

It wasn't a simple thing. Not by a wide margin.

He had been reasonably sure before that Draco might be interested in more than just a tumble, but those were the actions of a man who...

Harry couldn't bear to think it, in case he was wrong. But his heart beat loudly in his chest and his skin felt hot where Draco had touched him and he dared to hope.

" _Well?_ " Draco demanded, arching a brow imperiously.

 _Oh right_. Harry collected his wits and jibed, "I assume I don't need to explain the mechanics of the game seeing as you are the 'undisputed champion.'"

"You are correct," Draco deflected Harry's sarcasm by responding to it at face value. Harry snorted. "But which rules will we be playing this evening?"

"Classical game. It'll be a test of speed," he replied. "You're fast, I know. But I'm willing to bet my trousers I'm faster. I did always beat you to the snitch." Harry grinned and retrieved his glass for another bracing drink.

Draco smirked. "But we are not on the pitch, are we? I believe _I_ have the advantage here."

Godrick, Harry enjoyed this banter. It was like the way they used to snipe at each other but without the vicious barbs. It got his blood flowing just the same.

"Let's find out then, shall we?" he invited, and held his wand over the deck at the ready.

Draco did likewise and the cards began to shuffle. Harry's world narrowed down to the faces being revealed and his perfect commitment to beat Draco to every match.

But Draco tapped the first pair, to Harry's dismay.

Then the second.

And then the third.

Harry began to panic. His plan had been to take a decisive lead early, before Draco's lack of clothing (or his own) proved detrimental to his concentration, counting on his Seeker's reflexes to see him through. But Draco was bloody _fast_. Much faster than Harry had accounted for. He lunged for pairs quick as a viper strike while Harry's brain was still processing the images on the cards.

Harry ultimately managed to snag a few, small consolation that that was, but by the end of the round Draco was the proud owner of his dragon hide boots. Harry feared the rest of his clothes would soon join them. This was _not_ going according to plan.

At least he had had the foresight to wear matching socks that were clean and free of holes...

"Did you know," Draco drawled, "that the mastery of potions requires deft hands and a careful eye?" While he spoke, he traced his middle finger around the rim of his wineglass in a thoroughly distracting manner.

"I wasn't aware," Harry intoned, trying (and failing) not to stare at those tantalizing hands.

Draco tsked and set his glass aside (thank Merlin for small mercies). "Isn't one of the foundational principles of the study of defense against the dark arts to know one's enemy? How else could you stand any chance of winning?" he questioned, gesturing expansively.

"You're right," Harry responded, "And I _am_ trying to get to know you better--that's rather the whole point, isn't it?--but I don't consider you my enemy anymore. It's been a long time since I did," he looked at Draco meaningfully, willing him to accept that fact.

Draco tipped his head in a small nod of aknowlegment.

"But that reminds me," Harry continued, "I wanted to ask if you'd be ok with me popping by one of your classes sometime."

Draco looked disconcerted. " _Why?_ " he asked suspiciously, as if Harry had some kind of ulterior motive.

"Just curious," Harry answered honestly. "I've never seen you teach and I have no idea what kind of professor you are and I'd like to know."

Draco tapped his index finger to his pursed lips, mulling it over. "Very well," he replied, "you may. But only if you come under your invisibility cloak and do not announce your presence. I don't want you disrupting my class. Or me, for that matter."

Harry hadn't expected that answer. He'd thought Draco would want to know precisely when he planned to visit so he could present himself in the best possible light.

He was duly impressed.

"Great," he beamed, then soberly inquired, "Are you ready for my question now?"

"As I'll ever be," Draco sighed warily.

"For what it's worth, I'm pretty sure this one's the worst." Harry tried for consolation, but it only resulted in Draco tensing up in his chair. Still, he had to know the answer to this question if they were going to continue...doing whatever it was they were doing.

Seeing no other way for it, he took the direct approach. "I know in the end you did the things you did because Voldemort was threatening you and your family," Draco still flinched at the name, Harry noticed with regret, "but what about the start? Did you _want_ to be a Death Eater and get the Mark and rid the world of everyone who isn't pureblood?"

Draco's eyelids fell heavily and his nostrils flared, like he was pained but trying not to show it. After a moment he opened them again and faced Harry calmly.

"You have to understand," he began, "that I was raised in a family steeped in tradition and expectations. Malfoy is not just my name--it is my legacy, my heritage. And my burden." He exhaled loudly through his nose and Harry could tell he was grinding his teeth. "When I was young, I idolized my father. I wanted to be like him in every way and I was brought up to do just that. I didn't question the blood purity bullshit. If everyone around you believes the same things, how could you even _know_ there are different opinions, other ideas worthy of merit? So it goes with all manner of things in the pureblood circles. Although, by necessity, that has changed somewhat since the war..." Draco trailed off, lost in thought.

Harry chose not to interrupt. Whatever Draco was thinking, it was probably important.

Before long his eyes focused on Harry again and he spoke plainly, "The answer to your question is _yes_. At first I did want those things, to my unending shame."

Harry wasn't surprised. Having known Draco at the time, it was clear he had believed in Voldemort and his cause. But he appreciated Draco's honesty and the fact he hadn't much tried to justify his choices.

"Did you still want the Mark by the time you got it?" he pressed. The question had burned at him since before Draco's trial.

"No," Draco answered definitively, voice tight.

Harry tasted bile at the knowledge of what the branding must have been like for him then; how scared and desperate he must have felt to go along with it against his will. And to carry the Mark for the rest of his life, a constant and immutable reminder to Draco and anyone who saw it of things he'd rather forget...well, Harry knew a thing or two about that.

They both sat in pregnant, painful silence for a minute. Then Harry had an idea. (It was Draco's idea, really, but it had been a good one.)

"Can I see it?" he asked softly.

Draco did a double take, apparently doubting his hearing.

Harry sat as patiently as he could given that he was practically vibrating with anticipation both anxious and expectant.

Draco sniffed once, then pulled up his left sleeve, extending his arm and turning his head away as he did so, like he couldn't bear to see the Mark himself.

It was different than Harry remembered--faded and scarred. He padded to Draco's seat and dropped to his knees in front of him. Draco's head snapped forward as if spelled. His eyes were wide, almost fearful.

Harry gave him a reassuring smile then returned his attention to the ugly mark, tracing the sinuous curves of the skull-and-snake first with his gaze, then his fingertips.

Draco's arm trembled and Harry could hear that his breath did, too.

He cupped Draco's elbow in his left palm and took his wrist in his right, drawing Draco's arm to his mouth and pouring all the compassion and forgiveness he could muster into a kiss.

Draco gasped, the muscles of his forearm jumping beneath Harry's lips. Encouraged (and more than a little turned on), Harry continued mouthing the hard, puckered skin, nipping and licking here and there and kneading where his hands gripped Draco's arm.

" _Harry_..." Draco breathed. Harry didn't stop what he was doing but he glanced up and locked stares with Draco.

Draco's face was filled with awe. Harry couldn't look away if his life depended on it.

He gave one last broad swipe of his tongue and tried to fix in his mind the picture of Draco just then--cheeks flushed, perfect white teeth biting into his lower lip, and eyes smoldering. All for him. _Because_ of him.

It was a heady sensation.

And the hottest fucking thing he had ever seen.

By the end of it, Harry decided the Mark wasn't so bad, after all. Just another scar (Merlin knows they both had plenty). He rocked back on his heels, releasing Draco's arm and grinning up at him.

"Forget the game," Draco spoke huskily, grey eyes dark and fathomless, "you can ask me questions for the rest of the night as long as you keep that up."

"But where's the fun in that?" Harry joked, though secretly he was considering it. "Besides, you're currently up one-zero. I can't let that stand; my Gryffindor pride demands we play on."

Draco grabbed the bottom of his jumper, pulled it up and over his head, and chucked it onto Harry's chair, exposing a tight black undershirt, sculpted arms, and the pale column of his neck.

"Would you look at that," Draco feigned astonishment. "It appears the game has suddenly been tied up. Now come here," he reached for Harry, pulling him off-balance and into his lap.

Harry found that shock and arousal made him much more cooperative than usual. He rearranged himself to fit more comfortably, which meant he ended up straddling Draco's thighs. He wrapped his arms loosely around Draco's neck and enjoyed the opportunity to look down at the taller man for a change.

Draco leered up at him and rested his hands on Harry's hips, squeezing gently.

Breathless and eager, Harry threw a wandless locking charm at the door and added a silencing spell for good measure. He was surprised to find Draco gazing at him through hooded eyes when he looked back.

"Do you have any idea how sexy that is?" Draco whispered, rhythmically flexing and relaxing his fingers against Harry's trousers.

"It's a first year spell," Harry countered, unused to anyone calling him (or his magic) sexy.

"Not when you perform it without a wand, it isn't," Draco asserted. "Just how much wandless magic _can_ you do?"

Harry didn't particularly want to be having a conversation right now (not when there were more _pressing_ matters to attend to), but he replied, "The basics. Locking and unlocking, _muffliato_ , the summoning spell, a few of Molly's chore charms. I can cast a decent _protego_ in a pinch, but that's always better with a wand."

Draco's breathing got quicker and shallower and his grasps on Harry's hips firmer with each spell listed, so Harry kept going. "I can light or extinguish a fire, lift and move small objects, and vanish something, if I really put my mind to it. I can also cast a few of the milder jinxes."

When he'd run out of spells to name, Harry struck upon an inspiration. He levitated the wine bottle and carefully tilted it to pour a measure into Draco's glass. He released Draco's neck to hand the glass to him, set the bottle back on the table with a thought, and leaned back a bit so his arse was resting on the tops of Draco's knees. He then focused his attention on the dark green buttons of his shirt.

Working them through their holes required a great deal more concentration and finesse than Harry typically used for his wandless magic (flinging it around, careless and indistinct, and expecting the results to be close enough).

By the time he was halfway through, a bit of sweat had sprung out at his temples and he shook faintly from the exertion. But the way Draco stared--lips parted and panting, rosy flush climbing his chest and neck, and wineglass held so tightly Harry worried it might shatter--made it totally worth the effort.

Draco was on him as soon as he finished the last button. Harry wondered momentarily after the glass's whereabouts, but all rational thought fled when Draco's scorching hands clutched beneath the loosely hanging shirt at the muscles of his back and he fixed his mouth on Harry's clavicle in a series of wet, sucking kisses.

Harry tangled his fingers in Draco's silky hair, tossed his head back, and moaned (only a little self-conscious about how wanton he must look). Draco bit down on Harry's pectoral, practically growling, and thrust against Harry's arse.

_Merlin, he was hard!_

Harry was already painfully aroused, but feeling Draco's erection and knowing that he wanted Harry just as much sent another rush of blood southward until Harry was heavy and throbbing with need.

Desperate for an outlet for this hot, frantic lust, he arched against Draco's stomach, rutting shamelessly. Draco pulled him in closer with an arm braced on the small of his back and another gripping Harry's arse and ground just as shamelessly in return.

Harry's gasping and panting sounded loud in his ears, but Draco's noises mingled with his own and made them seem erotic rather than embarrassing.

Harry and Ginny's few pathetic attempts at lovemaking had been quiet, restrained affairs. Nothing like how Draco was clawing and scratching and biting at Harry and urging him to do the same. Harry thought he might combust from the heat between them before either was even done.

He pulled Draco away from his neck to plant an open-mouthed kiss on lips that were red and swollen. Taking consent for granted, Harry plunged his tongue inside and tried to map and taste every contour of Draco's mouth. Draco surged up into the kiss and twined his tongue with Harry's and the two battled, not quite for dominance, but something like it. Gratification, maybe. (Harry was feeling very, very gratified.)

He tugged Draco's hair and cradled his skull and sucked on his tongue and rocked against the hard plane of his abdomen and took and took and _took_ and Draco didn't seem to mind. He spurred Harry on with his own greedy kisses and desperate utterances and it was almost too much to bear.

Harry was close. The days of teasing and nights of dreaming and Draco's wonderful, wicked, skillfull hands and scalding kisses had nearly undone him, but he didn't want it to be like this.

Make no mistake, _this_ was great, brilliant (fan-fucking-tastic) and definitely worth revisiting, but Harry didn't want their first time to be quick and dirty. He wanted to savor it, like Draco's wine. So he did the only thing he could think of and broke the kiss to whisper in Draco's ear, "I have another secret."

"You like it rough?" Draco guessed, voice a rumble against Harry's jaw. Harry could hear the smirk even though he couldn't see it. That and the way Draco continued to writhe beneath him made it incredibly hard for Harry to maintain his train of thought. But Draco had to know.

"No. Er, well, _maybe_. It's starting to seem like it," Harry rambled insensibly, "But that's not the point--could you _please_ stop moving for one moment?" he implored. "It's making it bloody impossible to think."

Draco chuckled but stopped, thank Merlin, and leaned back to see Harry's face. "What is it then?" he asked, looking far too smug and debauched for Harry's well-being.

Harry cleared his throat. "Uh...the thing is, um..."

Draco began to frown. _That won't do._

"I've never actually done this before," Harry blurted.


	23. Chapter 23

Draco froze. He wasn't proud of it, but at least it was better than his first instinct, which had been to dump Harry unceremoniously onto the floor. He only narrowly avoided following through by virtue of his last, determined shred of self-discipline. Not for the first time that evening, he was certain he must have misheard Harry.

"What did you say?" he asked cautiously.

Harry used one hand to straighten spectacles that had been knocked askew during their furious snogging, leaving the other holding Draco's shoulder for balance. The grip was hesitant where earlier it had been sure and possessive.

"I've never done this before," he repeated, blushing but not looking away.

So Draco's ears were in proper working order, then.

His brain, not so much.

He could not seem to reconcile this revelation with what he knew about Harry (not the least of which included the delightfully enthusiastic way he'd been all over Draco a minute ago).

"But you were married," he argued lamely.

"I didn't mean I've never had _sex_." Harry had the gall to roll his eyes (when here Draco was, trying valiantly to understand!), "Just never with a man."

" _Never?_ "

Harry did not dignify that with an answer except to lift a brow in a decent imitation of Draco's best condescending look. Which was fair; he had said it twice already.

"Ok, Fine. You've never had sex," Draco relented. "But what about anything else?" Harry hadn't _kissed_ like someone who'd never done at least that much before.

But Harry shook his head. "I tried going to a muggle gay bar a few months ago. I shared a couple of interesting 'dances' but left pretty quickly because I realized I didn't want cheap, anonymous sex. Or anything like it."

Draco elected to gloss over the dancing bit because the idea made him feel irrationally jealous (and somewhat queasy) and he was being irrational enough, as it was.

"Then how do you _know_  you're bent? Maybe you're just curious," he pushed.

Harry looked cross.

Draco knew he being quarrelsome. It was not how he wanted to come off, especially while Harry was still firmly ensconced on his lap, but if this was all a game to Harry or a foray into self-discovery (or some such nonsense) with someone he'd collected enough blackmail material on to trust not to go to the Prophet when everything was said and done, and whose opinion he wasn't terribly worried about should he decide he didn't actually enjoy cock after all, Draco had to know so he could end things before it was too late.

 _It already is_ , he despaired to admit.

"I know who I'm attracted to, Draco," Harry stated firmly, clipped tone just this side of irritated. "It's blokes, in general. And _you_ ," he poked Draco in the chest, "specifically."

That was something, and Draco wished it was enough but, unfortunately, it was not. (Though, _Salazar_ , his persistent hard-on begged to differ.)

Harry had probably convinced himself Draco was some kind of romantic figure--the poor, lost soul to rescue or "bad boy" in need of love and redemption--and there was no way he could live up to those fantasies. They would both be hurt and disappointed when the truth came out. Harry would find someone else, and Draco would...not. Harry had been the center of his universe for so long no other person could even hope to compete.

He batted Harry's hand away.

"I can't--" _give you romance_. "I don't--" _know how_. "I've--" _never experienced it before_.

Draco clenched his jaw; he was jabbering as incomprehensibly as Harry when nervous. He exhaled and said, "I don't _do_ romance, Harry. You deserve someone who does."

Amazingly, Harry gave an indulgent grin in response. "Is that what this is about? You think I want--what, _flowers and sonnets_?" He punched Draco in the shoulder. "You barmy twat! I thought you'd decided me too inexperienced for you and you were trying to get _me_ to back out so you could spare me the rejection. I was ready to tell you about all the how-to books I've read and late night experimenting I've been doing and plead my case as a quick study."

Draco rubbed his bruised shoulder, scowling. (He absolutely refused to let himself think about the last part of what Harry had said--it would be counterproductive.)

"This isn't about poetry and candlelit dinners--though, you're a Gryffindor, of course you want those things--it's about the fact I am no good as a," Draco waved his hand as he cast about for the right wording, "I don't know, _starter boyfriend_ , and that you should find someone else to...explore your identity with. Someone who is patient and selfless and kind. A Hufflepuff, most likely."

 _Sweet Merlin, that was hard to say_. Draco felt like he was cutting his own heart out with a dull knife. But it was better this way. Maybe Harry could at least think him noble and self-sacrificing, just this once.

Even if he never wanted to speak to him again afterwards.

 _Fuck_.

Draco expected Harry to argue. To vault off his lap and bluster about and maybe storm out of the room.

He did not expect those impossibly-green eyes to go soft and knowing and the grin to shift into a mild quirk of lips.

"You think you're not good enough for me." Harry spoke softly, cupping Draco's cheek as he did so. (It wasn't a question.) Draco was torn between leaning into the touch and flinching from the painful accuracy of the declaration; he did neither. Harry dug deeper, "That you don't _deserve_ me." Draco did flinch that time. "That I don't know you, and wouldn't want you if I did."

Draco tried to say that all of that was true, that Harry was a fool if he thought otherwise, but Harry kissed him then, sweet and mellow, one hand still on Draco's cheek and the other anchored to his shoulder.

A man could only deny himself so much before his resolve gave way.

Draco fisted his hands in the loose ends of Harry's silk shirt and kissed for all he was worth.

Moments (hours? _Days_?) later, they broke apart to catch their breath. Harry pulled his glasses off his face and tossed them carelessly over his shoulder. He then rested his forehead against Draco's, twining his fingers in the hair at Draco's nape.

From this distance, Draco could hardly focus on Harry's face (that probably made two of them), but his emerald eyes looked bigger, clearer, and somehow more vulnerable without the barrier of the round lenses in front of them. His lashes were long and sooty and his hot breath mingled with Draco's as it puffed into the small space between them.

"It's true that I don't know everything about you, but I want to," Harry spoke quietly but with conviction. "And you're an idiot if you think I don't know you better than most. We all have flaws, Draco, and we've all made mistakes--I want you not just in spite of yours, but because of them."

Draco's heart was in his throat. " _Why?_ " he rasped. 

"Because they make you who you are--a man who is complex and clever and handsome and driven and funny and brave. Who challenges and excites and, yes, frequently annoys me. I want you because you know _me_ , flaws and all, and want me for who I am, not what I did or what I represent or what you might get from being seen with me."

Draco was quite sure Harry had gone completely round the twist (especially to call him brave, of all things) but he was correct in his assessment of Draco's attitude toward him, at least.

"I thought Granger was supposed to be the insightful one," he joked weakly.

Harry grinned and leaned back a few inches. "It's Granger-Weasley. And she's not here so I'm stuck doing all my own thinking."

"That must be hard for you," Draco sarcastically commiserated, trying to conceal the fact that inside he was shaky and eager and nervous and buoyant and terrified and all kinds of mixed-up sensations.

But more than the entire confusing tangle of feelings, he wanted.

And greater even than his wanting, he hoped.

"It's horrible," Harry agreed, "but I'll suffer in stoic silence because what I really want to know is, do you believe me now?"

"Merlin help me...I do."

Harry's smile could rival a dragon's hoard for its brilliance. "Good, because I was told there is fancy chocolate in your room and I'm hungry for  _dessert_."

For once, Draco was only too happy to oblige.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yowza. I've upgraded the story's rating to an E for this chapter. I hope I don't lose anyone over it.

The stone was cold beneath Harry's feet. In their haste to leave the room, they'd abandoned his boots and Draco's jumper. He'd barely had the wherewithal to haphazardly button his shirt and _accio_ his glasses on the way out, so he had extra incentive to move quickly. (Not that he needed it; Draco was plenty incentive on his own.)

He hoped that all the students between Ravenclaw Tower and Draco's rooms were actually respecting curfew that evening. By no means was he ashamed to be seen with Draco, he just wasn't eager to be the subject of gossip for being caught skulking about with another professor late at night and in a state of undress.

"I could probably apparate us there," he offered as they hurried down the hall.

"Through the wards?" Draco asked, incredulous.

"Yeah. It wouldn't be easy," Harry acknowledged, "but I'm pretty sure I want this bad enough to find the will to make it happen."

Draco stopped abruptly, turned on his heel, and shoved Harry into the nearest alcove to snog him senseless, growling as he did so.

"I don't even care if you can't really do it," he mumbled a few moments later against Harry's neck (which was now home to at least one stinging lovebite), "It's hot enough just to think you might."

Harry smirked, took Draco by the hand, and tugged him bodily in the direction of the dungeons.

"Holding hands, Potter?" Draco sneered at their clasped palms, "Are you sure the Hat didn't mean to sort you _Hufflepuff_?"

But he didn't let go, Harry observed with no small amount of satisfaction, and onward they went.

Absurdly, Harry felt like a student sneaking through the castle for a moonlit tryst, anxious to avoid Filch, prefects, and ghosts alike. It was sort of nice, truth be told, since pretty much all the times he'd prowled Hogwarts after curfew as a kid had to do with danger and intrigue, not the promise of some really excellent groping. (He was _really_ looking forward to the groping.)

He glanced sideways at Draco and felt another molten rush of desire. Draco's platinum hair was in disarray from Harry pawing at it, his lips were full and bruised from kissing, and he was huffing slightly (whether from arousal, their rapid pace, or a combination of the two, Harry wasn't sure).

He caught Harry staring and cocked a brow, all hot, haughty arrogance. Harry used their joined hands to pull Draco flush against his chest and snog the smirk right off his face.

In the middle of the castle.

Where anyone could see.

And Draco didn't even _try_ to stop him.

Godrick, they needed to get inside. And fast. Harry's self-control was hanging by a thread.

The moment Draco's rooms were finally in their line of sight, Draco cast an _alohamora_ so powerful it flung the door wide open and nearly off its hinges. Because Harry had snagged his left hand, he didn't have to release his hold to cast the spell.

Harry's heart hammered in his chest and he clutched at Draco's hand like a lifeline as Draco spurred him along. When they reached the portal, he herded Harry through and kicked the door shut behind them. He then fell back against the wood, pulling Harry with him for another fevered round of snogging.

Their teeth clacked and Harry's glasses were smashed uncomfortably into the bridge of his nose and he felt lightheaded from lack of oxygen, but he couldn't be arsed to care. Not when Draco's tongue was halfway down his throat.

Draco grabbed both sides of Harry's shirt and yanked, sending buttons scattering, bouncing off the floor and rolling under foot and furniture.

"Oi! That was my best shirt!" Harry griped.

Draco patted his cheek patronizingly and said, "I'll send it to Mipsy--she works wonders with silk." He then pushed the ruined garment off Harry's shoulders and sunk his teeth into the muscle joining Harry's neck and shoulder and Harry decided it wasn't such a big deal. Just a shirt. He had others. He could buy more. Loads and loads of shirts.

 _Oh Godrick_.

Draco sucked hard. Harry gasped and his hips jerked forward of their own accord. He decided he liked that sensation quite enough to do it again, with purpose this time. And then again after that.

Draco groaned and angled his pelvis so their pricks aligned on Harry's next thrust and that was. It was. _Merlin_ , it was fucking brilliant.

They rutted against each other, kissing and licking and biting and moaning into each other's mouths and against heated skin and it was, without a doubt, the best thing Harry had ever experienced.

In the back of his mind, he was curious to know what Draco's rooms looked like. He had a vague impression of dark wood, darker leather seating, and bookshelves, but that was it. Any time he had half a notion to glance around, Draco did something spectacular like pinch one of Harry's nipples or grind against him in such a way that every thought in his head fizzled into syrupy nothing like candy floss when wet.

Oh, but Harry couldn't get enough of Draco's skin. He groped and pulled and stroked and kneaded but he longed for more. He tugged Draco's shirt out of his trousers and over his head--

\--and came face-to-face with a sight that made his blood run cold.

A thin, silvery scar cut from Draco's right collarbone across his midline and disappeared into the waistband of his trousers on the left-hand side.

"Forget it. It's not important," Draco urged brusquely, trying to pull Harry against him again.

But Harry locked his elbows, remembering with horror that day in the loo. The water and Myrtle's screams and his fear...and the blood. There had been so much blood.

"I nearly killed you!" he protested.

"I am right here, whole and hale," Draco asserted, tapping his chest twice to emphasize his point. "You defended yourself against an Unforgivable that I am glad you didn't let me finish casting--you may have scarred my body, but that would have scarred my soul.

"Besides, Severus was certain you wouldn't have used the spell if you had known what it did, and you and I both know he was never one for charity towards you. Though I must say, even the most rudimentary grasp of latin should have clued you in to the nature of the curse. Did you pay _any_ attention in school or were you too busy being celebrated as the Chosen One?" Draco sneered, but the smile in his eyes was playful and affectionate.

How he could joke about something like this was totally beyond Harry, but it helped to ease the tight ball of guilt and shame in his gut.

"You know it was his creation, then?" he asked.

"I do," Draco responded. "And I'm done talking about it now, so will you come here and kiss me already?" he demanded impatiently.

Although he still felt somewhat off-kilter, Harry eagerly complied.

He leaned into Draco and began pressing kisses of mute apology against the length of the scar, starting at Draco's shoulder and working his way down. He brushed his palms over Draco's torso as he went, delighting in smooth skin, firm muscles, and the gentle ridges of his ribs.

When his hand passed over one of Draco's small pink nipples, he stopped to give it an experimental tug, eliciting a shiver of pleasure and a breathy grunt from Draco. Harry tried both at once and Draco's entire body convulsed on a full-throated moan. Harry's prick twitched sympathetically. Apparently Draco had sensitive nipples. Harry filed away that promising bit of information for later.

He then returned to the task of atoning for the _sectumsempra_. Stooping became uncomfortable after a while, so Harry kneeled before Draco and continued working along the scar until his progress was halted by Draco's trousers. Not so easily dissuaded from his course, Harry unfastened the slacks and peeled them back--inch by inch--kissing to the end of the faint line, which curled around Draco's jutting hipbone.

By that time, an appealing thatch of dark blond curls had been revealed and Harry was relatively sure Draco wasn't wearing pants (which was such a huge turn-on it wasn't even fair). At some point Draco had let his eyes fall closed and his head thump back against the door. One hand rested lightly on Harry's shoulder and he seemed to be putting considerable effort into regulating his breathing.

Harry grinned at that and tugged the trousers down around Draco's thighs, freeing his magnificent, hard prick, which bobbed enticingly at Harry's chin-level. It was straight and proud, seemed about average in its dimensions, and was flushed dark and shiny with arousal. Harry's mouth watered at the sight.

Before Draco could utter a single word of protest, Harry swallowed the first third of it, pausing when he felt his gag-reflex begin to tickle. What he wanted was to take every last inch into his mouth, but he knew that was something they'd have to work up to, disappointing as it was. Feeling stubborn, Harry pushed himself and managed to get halfway down before he had to pull off or risk choking.

He wrapped his right hand around the base of the shaft to apply some pressure and to steady Draco's prick so he could lick the head like a lolly.

Draco was having trouble standing and leaned heavily against the door for support. He babbled a litany of "oh Harry, Merlin, Circe, Salazar, _yes!_ , like that, just like that" and tangled a hand in Harry's hair, but didn't try to control Harry's movements, which was much appreciated.

Harry used his free hand to help prop Draco up by his hip (and prevent him from thrusting, if need be) and alternated between licking and sucking. He tried different angles, pressures, and speeds, paying close attention to what Draco responded well to, and wanked him shallowly all the while.

Amazingly, Draco seemed to enjoy everything and he was delightfully vocal about it.

Harry hadn't been sure if he would like giving head. Ginny had hated it, and Harry did find the bittersweet taste a bit odd (though not horrible), but all told, this was definitely a practice he could get behind. There was something exhilarating and darkly satisfying about being another man's undoing in this way. And Draco was undone--moaning and thrashing, without an inhibition or care, just single-minded focus on the pleasure Harry was bringing him. It was a potent feeling.

He was fully prepared to finish what he'd started and was even looking forward to it (if a bit nervous about letting Draco cum in his mouth), but Draco stilled him with a tug on his hair and a panted, "Not yet."

Harry released Draco's prick with an obscenely wet pop. "Why not?" he pouted.

Draco laughed, unrestrained and near-hysterical. "Harry Potter, you are going to be the death of me yet," he exclaimed, shaking his head but smiling as he did so.

He held his hand out to help Harry up off the ground, which Harry begrudgingly accepted, and shooed him in the direction of a darkened doorway and what Harry assumed to be Draco's bedroom.

"You. Me. Bed. _Now_ ," Draco urged, shucking off his trousers and pulling Harry along.

A small part of Harry was scared about the prospect.

The rest of him, though, was overjoyed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extended cliffhanger alert: I'm going out of town for a few days so the next update may be delayed. My apologies. Feel free to imagine the next part to tide you over in the interim ;)


	25. Chapter 25

_It bloody well figures he is as naturally gifted at sucking cock as literally every other thing he has ever tried_ , Draco thought with a wash of old resentment.

On a purely technical level, it hadn't been the best blow job of Draco's life, but it was close...and the fact that it had been _Harry_ going down on him cemented its position as the most memorable, at least. With a bit of practice, Harry might very well surpass him in skill, and Draco counted his ability to give first-rate head a point of pride.

The universe was simply unjust where Harry was concerned.

But Draco could not hold tightly to his bitterness as he was the beneficiary of Harry's preposterous good fortune in this case. And it was clear Harry had put dogged effort into making it good for him (not that he'd needed to do much more than _breathe_ on Draco's cock, his nerves were so sensitized at this point). He was beginning to realize there were some unexpected perks to dating a Gryffindor, and Harry's reckless determination bode well for their future sexual exploits.

Draco enjoyed watching the ripple of Harry's well-muscled back as he walked to Draco's bedroom. Letting his gaze fall on the twin globes of Harry's arse, he resolved to get him out of his trousers post haste.

He moved to light a candle and was startled to discover that he'd forgotten his wand in the sitting room with his clothes. Ordinarily, Draco never let his wand out of his sight, not after missing it for so long and having felt almost totally helpless without it. But he realized (with an even greater shock) he felt safe enough with Harry that he wasn't compelled to immediately rush out and retrieve it.

_On second thought, it isn't all that surprising, really._

"Would you mind?" he asked, gesturing toward the candle.

Harry grinned wolfishly and snapped his fingers, igniting not only that candle but every candle in the room, causing momentary spots in Draco's vision with the sudden increase in light.

"Show-off," Draco muttered.

Harry chuckled, deep and rich and warm. "You like it," he countered, snaking his arms round Draco's waist and pressing himself against his body. "You told me so," he whispered into Draco's ear, then sucked the lobe between his teeth.

Draco's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he struggled not to melt into a puddle on the floor. "It's too bright in here now," he complained pettily (in an attempt to maintain control of the situation).

"I want to see you," Harry countered, mouthing from the edge Draco's jaw all the way to his lips, then treating Draco to a slow, probing kiss.

Draco couldn't argue with that. (Well, he probably could, but he didn't much feel like doing so.) He swirled his tongue around Harry's and insinuated his hands between them to work open the fastenings of Harry's slacks. Thus accomplished, he pushed them along with Harry's pants down his legs and helped him to get free.

Draco took a step back to better appreciate the sight of Harry laid bare before him.

Harry crossed one arm self-consciously over his torso, hooking a hand on the opposite elbow, but stood still for his perusal. With impressive self-restraint, Draco began his inspection at the top of Harry's head and worked his way down, denying himself even a passing glance at what he most wanted to see.

Harry's tangled-mess of hair was even more unruly than usual; now, however, Draco found it somewhat endearing since he had had a hand (quite literally) in its current state of dishevelment. He was pleased to note that vibrant lovebites had bloomed on Harry's neck, shoulder, and chest--he would leave more before the night was done. Though no one else would ever see them, Draco knew the marks for the claim of ownership that they were and seared the memory of how they looked on Harry in his mind. For all he knew, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Though Harry was compact, he was well-proportioned; the definition of his muscles suggested a concerted effort at fitness as opposed to mere inborn endowment. His shoulders and chest were broad in proportion to his trim waist and narrow hips. His nipples were large and dark and a light dusting of hair covered his chest, collecting in the middle to trail enticingly downward, thickening as it went. The abdominals that peeked out under Harry's obscuring arm were sharply defined, as was the appealing vee of his Apollo's belt. His legs were lean but sturdy-looking.

An assortment of scars peppered his body, an enduring testament to the violent life Harry had lived since the first and most famous of his scars. Most were small and unremarkable, but a few stood out: a strange circular one that could have been a burn in the middle of his chest, a long, jagged one under his ribs on the right side that looked as though something fanged had tried to take a chunk out of him, and an aged one on the inside of his right forearm that created a noticeable indentation. Draco supposed someone might find the scars off-putting, but he thought they were visually interesting and added character to Harry's physique.

Having looked his fill at the rest of what could be seen from that vantage point, Draco finally let his eyes fall on Harry's cock, jutting, flushed and veined, from a thick, dark nest of curls. It failed to live up to the rumors (frankly, it would be impossible for a cock to do otherwise unless its owner was part-giant) but it was perfectly nice, all the same. Maybe an inch shorter than Draco's and comparable in thickness, but with an intriguing curve to it that Draco suspected he could put to good use.

In his expert opinion, Harry had nothing to be ashamed of.

"You're gorgeous," he proclaimed. Harry smiled shyly in response and let his arm hang at his side. "Now turn around and let me see that fantastic arse of yours," Draco ordered. "I swear, half the time I missed the snitch because I was too distracted whenever I flew behind you."

 _Shit_. He hadn't meant to say that out loud. How much wine had he had, anyway? Not enough to justify the slip. He was drunk on Harry; there was no other explanation for it.

" _Oh_ _really_?" Harry asked, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. He closed the space between them, brushed some hair out of Draco's eyes, and lightly stroked his hands up and down Draco's arms.

"Do you have any idea how many awkward experiences I had in the locker room showers because of _you_?"

Draco shook his head, heart beating too loudly to form a proper verbal response. 

"'Too many to count' is the answer," he was solemnly informed. Harry dropped a kiss on the hollow of Draco's throat (where his pulse skittered anxiously).

Draco took some satisfaction in the knowledge that he wasn't the only one who had suffered in school, and was grateful to Harry for making an admission of his own rather than teasing him about the sore subject.

"How long?" he asked roughly, though a sizable percentage of him wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

"Since third year, " Harry replied. "What about you?"

"Forever," Draco whispered, tongue loosened as if by veritaserum.

"You mean we could have been doing _this_ all along? Bollocks. That would have saved me a good bit of heartache," Harry joked, but it was tinted with genuine regret. 

Draco clasped Harry's hands in his own (ignoring the snide voice inside that derided the gesture as unforgivably mawkish.) "Probably not. We were both too hot-headed back then--we would have flared out quickly, assuming we could even manage to stop bickering long enough to figure out this mutual attraction. But we're here now, so let's make the most of it."

"You're probably right," Harry replied, stroking Draco's thumbs with his own. He looked pensive. "Can I ask you something?"

"You can _ask_ ," was Draco's circumspect reply. They'd done far too much talking and not enough snogging lately.

Harry pinned Draco with a searching look. "If you liked me back then, why were you such an arsehole when I gave your wand back to you?"

"Ah," Draco cleared his throat. He had expected that question at some point. And Harry deserved an answer, but, "I'd rather address that another time."

"Ok," Harry said lightly, to Draco's immense relief. "In that case, here's your eyeful," he offered saucily over his shoulder as he turned and sauntered to Draco's spacious four-poster with a comically exaggerated sway in his steps.

Full and round and pert and dimpled, it really was a phenomenal arse.

Draco bounded across the room to meet Harry on the bed, feeling for all the world like some of Harry's ridiculous good luck had miraculously transferred to him. He tackled Harry and the two fell laughing in a tangle of limbs onto Draco's bedspread.

"You look so different when you smile like that," Harry marveled, touching his fingertips to the corners of Draco's eyes and mouth.

Somewhat discomfited by the compliment, Draco turned his head to catch the tip of Harry's thumb between his teeth and give him a preview of what he intended to do next. The breath hitched in Harry's throat and he stared, enthralled, as Draco virtually fellated the digit. He nipped the pad of Harry's thumb and pushed him flat on his back.

He removed Harry's glasses, placing them on the nightstand for safekeeping, and settled himself on his left side pressed up against Harry's right. He gently turned Harry's face to snog him while his right hand roamed freely over as much of Harry as he could reach.

For several minutes, Draco worked to stoke Harry's desire--not to the intensity of white-hot flames but rather smoldering, red-glowing coals, the heat from which would last far longer. He kissed every inch of Harry's skin and moved his hands in slow, sure strokes, loosening Harry's muscles, letting any lingering tension bleed out of him, and tending the embers of his arousal.

Harry had tried to hurry things at first but ultimately surrendered to Draco's ministrations. On more than one occasion, he had been so still Draco would have worried him asleep were it not for his contented sighs and deep groans of appreciation.

When Draco was satisfied that Harry was as relaxed as he could possibly be while remaining conscious, he nudged Harry's knees apart so he could reach between them, folded himself at the waist, and swallowed Harry's half-hard cock all the way to the root.

Harry cried out, eyes flying open, and nearly arched off the bed.

"Godrick-- _Merlin_ \-- ** _Draco_!** " he exclaimed.

Draco smirked against Harry's pubic bone, wiry hairs tickling his nose. He then hollowed his cheeks, slowly drew back to the tip of Harry's cock, and sucked down the entire length once again. He relished the sensation of Harry rapidly swelling to full hardness in his mouth.

Harry was the perfect size for this. The tip of his cock just reached the back of Draco's throat when Draco swallowed him to the hilt, so Draco didn't have to fuss with deep throating or worrying about his oxygen supply. He increased the pace, sucking and bobbing while he fondled Harry's heavy bollocks. Harry's thighs tensed and shook, his hands scrabbled for purchase on Draco's bedding, and his face scrunched in what could be easily mistaken for a grimace of pain.

His fervid, "oh, oh, oh, Draco!" proved otherwise.

Far too soon, Harry pulled Draco off and up to eye-level. "Merlin! You are _way_ too good at that," Harry panted "One second more and it would have been all over."

Draco gave a self-satisfied grin and busied himself with a spot of leisurely snogging.

After a while, he propped his head in one hand (trailing the other in senseless patterns through Harry's chest hair) and asked, "How do you want to do this? It will probably be easier for you if you're on top, which I am not opposed to." Truthfully, Draco would take Harry any way that he could have him.

"No, I definitely want you inside me." Harry said it with such arresting certainty that Draco almost lost his breath. He had to forcibly restrain himself from leaping to fulfill Harry's wishes that very moment.

"That can be arranged," he drawled, pretending at a good deal more composure than he really felt. "Earlier, you mentioned some 'late night experimenting.' What exactly does that entail?"

Harry's cheeks flamed. "It's sort of embarrassing," he mumbled.

Draco kissed the tip of his nose. "It's relevant to how we proceed," he explained, understanding that much of this was uncharted territory for Harry. "It will give me an idea of how much preparation you'll need."

Harry wrinkled his nose. "Do I _have_ to say it?" he whinged (adorably).

"Certainly not!" Draco grinned lasciviously, "You're very welcome to show me."

"Merlin! That's a bit much for me." Harry ran his fingers through his hair and coughed. "I, um, I've been trying out wanking while using my fingers to get used to the feeling of... _you know_."

"Harry, if you can't say it, you're not ready do it," Draco responded primly. (His brain helpfully supplied images of what Harry was pussyfooting around, however.)

"You're the devil," Harry scowled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "And I must be mental because," he paused for the span of a breath, "I want your prick up my arse. Godrick, I want it so bad I've practically wanked myself raw these last few days, and I got off with three fingers shoved inside me this afternoon imagining they were you. I tried two yesterday. It's not easy, but we'll make it work. I know it."

 _Yes, there are **definite** perks to dating a Gryffindor_.

Draco was achingly hard. Harry had gifted him with such a treasure in that confession, he decided to grace him with one in return. "I skipped dinner to wank in this very bed," he purred, walking two fingers across Harry's abdomen, "because I was not confident I could get through our date without taking the edge off my lust for you."

Harry grabbed Draco's hand and squeezed, face pleading. "Godrick. Draco, I need you to fuck me. Right now. Don't make me wait any longer," he begged.

Draco shuddered, speared with the sharpest desire he had ever experienced. "Patience is a virtue, darling," he reminded himself as much as Harry. "I am not going to rush this." He put his lips to Harry's ear, "And you will thank me when we're through," he whispered hotly.

Then he set out to make good on his vow.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news: I'm home and I've finally got a new chapter for you (and it's another spicy one).
> 
> Bad news: I've had a major flare-up of tennis elbow that is painfully exacerbated by typing, which means I need to take some more time off from writing to let it heal. Hopefully a week, at the most. I'm as eager to write this story as you are to read it. 
> 
> Fun fact: I haven't played tennis in more than 15 years :/

Harry was almost mindless with lust. He would probably feel worried or embarrassed or something about it if there was any space in him to feel anything besides the all-consuming need to have Draco inside him. Honestly, he didn't know if he would even like the experience, but liking was a paltry concern when he _needed_ it as much as his next breath.

Maybe more.

And Draco was going to ruin him--utterly and completely _destroy_  him--with his feather-light kisses and gentle caresses that might have been nice in some other reality but were setting Harry's teeth on edge now because they weren't enough. Not hard enough, not fast enough, not insistent enough.

Not enough.

"More, Draco," Harry pleaded. "I need more."

"Shhh," Draco soothed, pressing soft (bloody ticklish) kisses to the sensitive inside of Harry's thigh. Even the shush had Harry jerking his limb away as the puff of air stirred his leg hair and made his nerves tingle.

He felt like he'd been hard for ages. His bollocks were high and tight, desperate for release. Unable to take the enormous pressure any longer, Harry fisted his prick and gave a savage tug. His toes curled and he cried out, on the verge of orgasm from that simple touch alone. But Draco tsked and gently removed his hand. (Of course it was _gently_. Fucking tosser.)

"Soon," Draco breathed. "I will take care of you. I promise." He kissed Harry's hand and placed it up on the pillow by his head then did the same with his other one. Draco gave him a significant look that told him to leave them there and then scooted to the end of the bed between Harry's legs.

"Be a dear and make some room, would you?" Draco asked, running his hands over Harry's shins like he didn't want to lose contact with his skin for even a moment.

Harry put his feet flat on the bedspread, knees up and legs as wide as they would go. His hips protested a bit but he ignored it. He would get used to the stretch momentarily, he knew.

"That's perfect," Draco uttered. " _You're_ perfect."

He felt ridiculously exposed under Draco's gaze, but appreciation and hunger were the only things in Draco's expression. Warmth suffused his body. Some of it was from embarrassment. Most of it, however, was from the heat in those storm-grey eyes as they raked over every inch of him.

Draco bent down and Harry anticipated more fantastic oral sex. What he did instead nearly sent Harry to the rafters.

He spread Harry's arsecheeks and kissed him directly on the ring. Not a dainty little kiss, either, but a full-on open-mouth snog ( _with tongue_ ) on his most intimate of places.

Harry wasn't sure he could even describe the sound he made at that, nor that he would want to. But the feeling-- _oh!_ \--the feeling was _incredible_.

Draco wrapped his arms under and around Harry's thighs to control his wild bucking (he couldn't have stilled himself if he'd tried). He licked across Harry's arsehole with broad, flat strokes, and around it with the pointed tip of his tongue, and sealed his lips on it _sucked_ , and all of it felt so incredibly, impossibly good, and a little bit dirty, and he could not believe that _Draco_ \--who wouldn't abide one speck of dust on his robes--would throw himself wholeheartedly into eating out Harry's arse. But he was! Enthusiastically, even.

Draco was moaning almost as much as Harry, sending delicious vibrations through his body. Harry thought it couldn't possibly get any better, then Draco breached him with his hot, wet, clever tongue and he very nearly came. Again.

Draco pressed his face as far as he could into Harry's arse and fucked him with his mouth and Harry could do nothing but moan and jerk and take it. He knotted his fingers in his own hair to keep from grabbing his prick, which steadily leaked pre-cum just below his navel.

Gradually, Harry became aware of something besides Draco's tongue seeking entrance. He willed himself to unclench and Draco's finger breached the barrier of his muscle, aided considerably by the saliva that eased the way. His body's immediate reaction was to push against the intrusion but he breathed through it and allowed Draco further inside until his finger was buried to the third knuckle.

Draco gave Harry time to adjust to the foreign and not-exactly-pleasant sensation. He continued liking and sucking and moaning encouragement until Harry relaxed enough for him to begin slowly working the finger in and out. It was not long before the awkwardness and discomfort faded enough for more enjoyable feelings to take over. Harry was ready for another shortly after that.

With the help of some citrus-scented lube Draco procured from his nightstand, he repeated the careful, considerate process of adding a second and eventually a third finger.

By that point the burning discomfort was great enough that Harry's erection began to flag; apparently not being in control of the penetration made his body much less accommodating. Half his mind screamed at him to scramble away from Draco's insistent hand, the fingers of which were scissoring and probing deeper even now, but the other half was determined to see this through even if it was unpleasant.

Merlin knows he had braved his way through the miserable sex of his marriage.

Just when Harry was resolving to lie back and think of England, Draco brushed something inside of him that triggered a bolt of pleasure so great his prick leapt to full attention. He could feel delicious aftershocks sparking along his limbs and down to his fingers and toes for seconds afterwards.

 _Prostate_ , Harry's brain supplied, the "Holy Grail of gay sex" according to the book currently sitting open on Harry's bed.

Draco curled his fingers against the spot and Harry's shoulders left the mattress, his core flexing around the explosive, exquisite sensation. All thought of discomfort and pain left his mind at once (and every other thought along with them) as Harry's entire being was distilled down to a perfect focus on the incredible feeling of Draco working him to the brink of orgasm from the inside.

After a few minutes Draco withdrew his hand, to Harry's whimpering dismay. But he replaced it with the lube-slicked head of his prick, which suddenly seemed quite a lot bigger than anyone's fingers. He hoisted Harry's legs over his arms, grasping his hips with both hands, and pushed slowly but inexorably, murmuring words of comfort and praise to Harry all the while.

"I know this part hurts, pet, and I am sorry," he whispered. "It'll only last a short while and it will be good after that. I promise I'll make it good for you. And I will stop any time you tell me to. I mean that--it doesn't matter if I'm mid-orgasm--if you tell me to stop, I will stop. You're doing great. You're amazing, perfect. You feel _so good_. Salazar, you're so tight. And you're beautiful, absolutely stunning," and the like, spoken through a throat thick with strain and something else (a lot like awe) until he was fully seated.

Harry couldn't respond. He was too busy trying to breathe and not kick Draco in the head. He couldn't even open his eyes to watch, though he badly wanted to. He held on to Draco's promises. Draco wouldn't lie to him, not about this. And that meant it would be good soon enough.

He just had to survive the time between now and then, during which he felt as though he were being split in two by a flaming sword.

But Draco was being so sweet to him, so wonderfully patient and kind. It was hard to believe this was the same person who had stomped his face and broken his nose and treated him with nothing but cruelty and acid contempt for years. Somehow Harry had known deep down in his soul what Draco was capable of, if only he were given the chance--because, as hard as it was to believe, Harry was not surprised.

Heart filled to bursting over Draco's tenderness, Harry forced his eyes open so he could look into Draco's when he said, "I'm ok. You can move. I'll tell you to stop if I need you to."

For one brief moment, Draco's face shone like Harry had offered him the keys to Gringotts. He turned his head to kiss the side of Harry's calf and slowly, achingly slowly dragged his hips back.

After having been totally filled with Draco's hard prick, Harry shuddered at the sudden of emptiness. Draco withdrew almost completely, paused, then inched his way back in again. His progress was slightly easier this time but the sting was still fierce enough to cause Harry to wince.

Draco immediately ceased pushing. Harry cracked one eye open to hiss, "I didn't tell you to stop."

"Idiot, Gryffindor," Draco rebuked with fond concern, "this isn't a race. Give yourself a chance to become accustomed to the feeling."

He stayed where he was, massaging Harry's thighs and kissing his calf, providing a pleasant contrast to the burning stretch in Harry's arse. Harry practiced breathing through his nose until his body was no longer on the verge of panic. Then he tightened his muscles on Draco's prick to get his attention.

Draco groaned deeply and almost lost his grip on Harry's legs.

"Salazar, Harry! You're going to finish this before we've even begun," he warned, voice like gravel.

"I wanted to make sure you were listening," Harry retorted.

Draco arched a brow. And wasn't he a sight, wearing Harry's legs like a scarf yet aiming for a look of superiority.

Harry pointed at Draco to emphasize the command he was about to give. "Draco, I want you to fuck me. And don't _stop_ fucking me unless I tell you to. Do you understand?"

Draco trembled. "Are you sure?" he asked quietly.

"I'm sure," Harry replied with steel in his tone.

"Oh Merlin," Draco squeaked, but he complied.

He thrust into Harry's body, slowly at first. Harry restrained a grimace because he didn't trust Draco not to stop otherwise, despite their agreement.

After a bit, the discomfort subsided to make way for a warm, satisfying fullness that was different than that of Harry's or even Draco's fingers. Harry sighed the breath he'd been holding.

Draco must have felt him relax because he smiled down at him. "Better now?" he asked.

"Better," Harry grinned back.

"Good."

Draco picked up the pace then and seemed to be trying to angle his hips just so. Harry figured out why when Draco's prick brushed against his prostate and he felt nothing but pleasure for the first time in minutes.

Brilliant, blinding bliss. 

 _This_ is what Harry had been hoping for.

Hitching Harry's arse a bit higher, Draco worked up to a punishing clip. The only thing Harry could do was hang on and pant his approval. Draco rammed his prostate with almost every thrust, making sparks behind Harry's eyelids and hot, coiled tension in his bollocks.

Before tonight Harry wouldn't have thought it possible to have an orgasm without his prick being stimulated, but he was rapidly approaching the brink from the amazing sensation for the...third time? He'd lost count.

Draco was glorious--pale skin shining with perspiration, loose falls of hair swinging across his face in time with his thrusts, rangy body taught with effort that caused his muscles to quiver, eyes dark and intense and only for Harry. He smirked and bit Harry's calf sharply.

Harry yowled like an alley cat.

Draco reached down and palmed his prick and that single touch was all it took to push Harry over the edge. Hot spurts of cum splashed across his stomach; it felt like the orgasm was violently wrung from the very depths of him.

It was so intense he might actually have blacked out for a second, but fortunately he retained enough sense to appreciate Draco's final slamming thrust and the hoarse cry torn from his throat as he emptied himself into Harry with pulse after throbbing pulse, which served to prolong Harry's own climax.

Utterly spent, Draco eased Harry's legs down to the bed and pulled out to wrap him in a grasping, possessive embrace. Harry could feel Draco's heart thudding in the press of his chest against Harry's bicep while he gasped for breath in the junction of Harry's neck and shoulder. Draco sang his praises (mostly unintellibly--Harry had to guess at the content from his tone) and peppered him with sloppy kisses.

Harry's hips ached and his arse felt sorely abused and spunk was rapidly cooling on his abdomen and leaking out of him onto Draco's nice bedspread...and he was more content than he had ever been in his life.

He waved a hand to cast a lazy cleaning charm on the both of them. Then he gathered Draco into his arms and nuzzled his face into Draco's hair (which smelled faintly of green apples).

"Thank you, Draco," he murmured with a kiss to the top of Draco's head.

The last thing he was aware of before dropping like a stone into sleep was Draco's answering smile against his neck.  


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 26 didn't update quite properly so be sure to check it out in case you missed it. Chapter 27 is brought to you by my friend Siri (the wonders of technology allowed me to dictate this one on my phone while my elbow is healing). 
> 
> I can't thank you guys enough for 300+ kudos and almost as many comments. I am blown away by your positive responses. You are really, truly wonderful. <3

As Draco blinked away the last vestiges of sleep, he became aware of several things at once:

  1. His arse was freezing.
  2. The rest of him was sweltering and borderline smothered by the oppressive weight of an unconscious Harry Potter.
  3. His floo was chiming.
  4. There was an insistent tapping at the window.
  5. Tacky, nearly-dried semen pulled unpleasantly on the skin of his lower abdomen.



Why Draco ever thought it was a good idea to go to sleep without casting at least a cursory cleaning charm remained a mystery; being awakened in the small hours of the morning by Harry's greedy hands and mouth, however, was quite all right. His body flushed to remember it and he gazed fondly at the man sharing his bed. Harry's face was transformed by sleep, gentle and relaxed in a way it never appeared in the waking hours. Draco was torn between wanting to kiss him and letting him steal a few more moments of rest.

Salazar, he was smitten. It was terrifying.

He gingerly lifted his head, attempting to discern the source of at least some of the things that had disturbed his slumber. He discovered that the bed clothes were pulled haphazardly across his and Harry's bodies. They covered two thirds of his torso and most of his left leg; Harry was not much better off.

If it weren't for Harry enveloping him like a lethifold Draco probably would have caught his death of cold during the night.

Irritation at the unwelcome interruptions warred with the unparalleled joy he felt at waking with Harry's legs tangled with his, arm thrown possessively across his waist, and quiet snores almost unnoticeable amongst the other noises filling the room.

Draco had hoped that both caller and bird would give up after being ignored long enough but they seemed equally persistent. Grumbling, he extricated himself from Harry's embrace, wrapped a dressing gown around his body, and nudged Harry--who, unbelievably, slept on--awake. "Will you let that bloody bird in while I go rip a new arsehole into whoever is calling at this hour on a Saturday morning?"

Draco took two steps away from the bed before returning to kiss Harry on the mouth. "Good morning, by the way," he whispered, smiling into Harry's bleary eyes.

A slow grin split Harry's face. "Yeah, it is," he said, voice rough with sleep.

He stretched luxuriously and gave a jaw-popping yawn while Draco strode out of the room.

"Treats are on the sill," Draco called behind him when he heard Harry open the window.

"Got it!" Harry hollered back.

Draco smirked to think of his mother's pinched frown of disapproval if she were to ever witness him carrying on like that, shouting across his rooms like a philistine. (Raising one's voice above a dignified murmer was expressly forbidden in the Manor...except for unhinged family members and their snake-faced lords, of course.)

He wiped the smile from his face and answered the floo.

He was greeted by Blaise, who took one (unnecessarily long) look at Draco's dressing gown and tousled hair and broke into a salacious grin.

"Draco! What a delight. I was beginning to worry you weren't going to answer."

"I shouldn't have," Draco muttered darkly. "Why are you calling so early on the one day a week I get to sleep in?"

Blaise's eyes twinkled. "Do you even know what time it is?"

Draco didn't, but that was beside the point. Judging by the warm light filtering in through his sitting room window it appeared to be later then he'd originally thought.

"What is it that you want, Zabini?" he snapped.

"Why are you in such a hurry to get rid of me?" Blaise drawled, making a point to speak even more slowly than usual. "Do you have someone waiting in your bed?" he teased, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. 

"Salazar, Blaise, I am in no mood for this. Spit it out or I am ending this call right now."

"Easy there," Blaise held up placating hands. "I was merely calling to inquire about a delicious bit of gossip our dear friend Pansy passed on to me."

"Stupid cow can't keep her mouth shut," Draco groused, knowing the kneazel was out of the bag if the two of them had spoken.

"No, especially not when she is being plied with expensive champagne," Blaise nodded sagely. "So, it's true then? After all these years you're finally putting the moves on your hopeless crush?"

"It's none of your business," Draco retorted sourly, pulling his dressing gown tighter around himself.

Blaise burst out laughing, his deep baritone resonant even through the distortion of the floo. " _Au contraire, mon ami_ , you made it my business when you accidentally called _his_ name out even though _I_ was the one with your pretty little cock in my mouth."

Draco fumed. That was not an event he cared to be reminded of, especially not right now.

"What happened to our agreement to pretend that incident never occurred?" he ground out.

Blaze smirked. "The terms of our contract were voided the moment you stopped pretending you're not interested in the Chosen Arse."

Before Draco could deliver a suitably scathing retort, Harry yelled from the bedroom, "Well this 'Chosen Arse' is feeling lonely in here so will you just tell Zabini to sod off already?"

Draco couldn't help his grin. He shrugged at Blaise and said, "You heard the man."

Blaise's eyes were as big as saucers as Draco shut the floo connection and warded it against all incoming calls.

"He and Pansy are going to have a field day with that, you know," Draco announced upon entering his room.

He was met with the unrivaled sight of Harry sprawled naked and unabashed on his bed. The cobalt of the bedclothes brought out the swarthiness of Harry's complexion (where they tended to make Draco seem even more pale). Combined with an impressive growth of stubble and his preponderance of scars, Harry seemed almost piratical with more than a hint of danger about him. It was a good look.

All told, Draco was quite pleased with the manifestation of Harry in his sheets and intended to keep him there as long as possible. He pushed the man to make room and joined him on the bed.

"I don't care," Harry answered sulkily. "I didn't want to hear him say another word about your pretty little cock. It's mine to talk about, not his."

Draco felt like Christmas had come early. "Are you _jealous_?"

Harry had the grace to blush. "I didn't realize you two were still friends," he said instead of answering.

Draco propped himself up with a pillow behind his back. "I keep in touch with him, Greg, and Theo. And Pansy, of course. I don't see them often because they've all emigrated to the Continent. Except for Theo, but he and I were never especially close."

Harry seemed troubled.

"What is it?" Draco asked, combing his fingers through Harry's wayward fringe.

Harry turned a penetrating stare on him. "Are you and Zabini _just_ friends?"

Draco sighed. His relationship with Blaise was complicated. He feared that Harry, with his tendency toward all-or-nothing thinking, wouldn't understand.

"There have been a handful of occasions in my adult life when I have let too much wine cloud my judgment and fallen into Blaise's bed for a one-off," he admitted. "Slytherins tend to be a bit more...pragmatic about taking our comforts where we can find them. But it has never been serious, nor would I want it to be. And I meant what I said before about fidelity being a requirement when I date. That applies to me, too."

"It's not really a one-off if it keeps happening," Harry muttered.

"That's true," Draco conceded. "Does my friendship with him bother you?"

Harry worried his lip. "I just feel a bit weird, I guess, about the fact you two have so much history. In the bedroom, I mean."

"Does it help to know that I'm not tempted in the slightest to think about Blaise when I've got _you_ in my bedroom?" Draco coaxed, cupping Harry's cheek.

Harry smiled reluctantly. "Some."

"And how about what you must have overheard regarding the person who occupied my thoughts when I was with him?"

Harry snorted. "I don't know how you ever managed to live that one down," he said, shaking his head.

"It helps that I know Blaise likes to wear witches knickers when he's feeling feisty," Draco said behind his hand, delighting in Harry's scandalized expression.

"Godrick! That is a mental image I could have gone to my grave without seeing," Harry whinged.

Draco snickered. Noticing the nondescript bird perched quietly by his window for the first time, he asked, "Who is the owl from?"

"See for yourself," Harry replied, handing Draco what was apparently the letter it carried. He wore an enigmatic expression that Draco immediately distrusted.

He looked to the parchment for answers, seeing as he wasn't getting any from Harry.

_Harry,_

_I tried flooing you twice last night and you never answered so I assume congratulations are in order. If you work up enough of an appetite to drive you out of bed at some point today, you should come down to the pub. I'll buy you a celebratory pint. Hannah's got a roast on that smells amazing and should be ready in time for lunch._

_Feel free to bring Draco._

_If you aren't going to swing by, be a mate and settle the wager, would you?_

_Also, we had a side bet going on how long you'd make it before you forgot all about playing snap and started playing with each other instead. Ron said 5 rounds, Hermione 3, Hannah 1, and I put five shiny galleons on the line for you not even getting the cards out of the box. Please don't tell me you've forgotten how to be a Gryffindor!_

_Cheers,_

_Neville_

Draco chuckled. "Your friends are unexpectedly astute. And a good deal more supportive than mine."

"No real surprise there, is it?" Harry smirked.

"I suppose not," Draco had to acknowledge.

Harry toyed with the edge of Draco's dressing gown. "Do you want to come with me? We could grab dinner, maybe?"

Draco was floored. "Are you asking me out on a date? In public?"

"Yeah," Harry rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. "I thought, or I was hoping, at least, that we could. You know, date." Harry cleared his throat.

"You beautiful man," Draco breathed in wonderment and kissed Harry hard.

After they came up for air Harry gave a lopsided grin. "So is that a yes?"

"You know the papers will be all over this when they learn of it," Draco warned. He was aware that Harry was a private man and had had more than his fair share of run-ins with the press.

"I am not ashamed of you, Draco," he said earnestly, catching Draco's hand in his own. "And I've got to come out sooner or later. Is it a problem for you if they write stories about us?"

In that moment, Draco felt he could fly without a broom. Harry wanted to date him. Openly. It was beyond his wildest dreams.

He tamped down his giddiness to reply, "I have dealt with the press before; they've already done their worst. But I will need to prepare my mother first. I am supposed to have dinner with her this evening so I must to bow out of the festivities at the Leaky, I'm afraid. Do thank Longbottom for the invitation for me, though."

"Ok," Harry looked as if he were trying not to appear totally crestfallen but Draco could read him as easily as a primary school book.

Harry's eyes took on a sly glint and he asked, "Want to try out _my_ bed when you get back tonight?"

"Salazar, _yes_. But I spend the weekends at the Manor, Harry. How have you not noticed that?"

"Oh." Harry's face dropped once again. "I guess I just thought you hid away in the dungeons."

"Shows how highly you think of my social life," Draco remarked drily.

"Hanging out with your mum hardly constitutes a 'social life'," Harry retorted.

Draco wisely bit back his retaliation, 'well at least I have a mum.' (It would have gone over about as well as an equestrian joke at a gathering of centaurs.) It was odd how flashes of their old rivalry cropped up like that, but Draco was sensitive to jibes at his mother's expense.

"I'll be back Sunday evening and we can put your bed through its paces then," he promised.

Harry gave a small smile. "And you're going to tell your mum about us?"

"I am."

"How do you think she'll take the news?" he asked, trepidation apparent in his tone.

"I can't imagine she'll be anything but thrilled," Draco lied through his teeth, "I know I am." (That part was true.)

Harry's real smile finally broke through like rays of sunshine after a storm. "Do you want to brave the kitchens to try to rustle up some breakfast or should we just make do with your chocolates?" he grinned. 

"I have something better in mind," Draco replied, licking his lips in anticipation. Then he pounced.


	28. Chapter 28

The Leaky was bustling when Harry arrived that evening. It had always been one of the more popular establishments on Diagon, but business had boomed since Hannah took over for Tom a few years back. Her warm cheerfulness, skill in the kitchen, and attention to detail--gone were the smoke stains on the walls and perpetual sticky smudges on the tables--had transformed the Leaky into a top-notch public house.

"Harry!" Hermione called through the din, waving her hand excitedly to beckon him to the booth they had commandeered in a back corner.

He picked his way through the crowd, ignoring the inevitable stares and whispers as best he could. Neville loosed a wolf-whistle when Harry was close and Hermione pulled him into a rib-bruising hug. "I've missed you so much!" she said, kissing his cheek and releasing him to slide into the booth next to Ron.

"All right, mate?" Ron smiled from across the table, handing a foamy pint to Harry as he took the open seat next to Neville.

Neville slapped him hard on the back, forcing an 'oof' out of Harry.

"He's better than 'all right!' Aren't you, Harry?" Neville grinned lewdly.

"You're worse than a Witch Weekly gossip columnist, Nev," Harry griped, but he couldn't fully hide his smile because, yeah, he _was_ better than all right.

"Aaah! He's blushing!" Hermione squealed. "Harry, you're blushing! Isn't that the sweetest thing." She sighed a dreamy sigh that would have seemed more fitting from Luna.

Harry covered his hot cheeks with his hands. "Help me out here, Ron," he pleaded.

"Sorry, mate. You brought this on yourself," Ron smirked, saluting with his glass (sloshing a bit over the rim onto Hannah's pristine tabletop) and taking a gulp.

Hannah herself came by that moment to drop a heaping basket of piping hot chips on the table along with a crisp green salad and two orders of a roast that did, in fact, smell amazing.

"Good to see you, love," she beamed, giving Harry an affectionate one-armed squeeze and mopping up Ron's spill with the bar rag she kept tucked in her apron.

"You, too, Hannah," Harry grinned back. "Can I trouble you for some of that delicious looking roast? I'm famished," he wheedled, patting his growling stomach for emphasis.

"I'll bet you are!" Neville leered.

Hannah leaned around Harry to swat her husband in the back of the head with the soggy rag before leaving to fix a plate for Harry.

"Blimey, Harry, is he always this bad?" Ron exclaimed, gesturing at Neville with his thumb.

"No, he's definitely gotten worse lately," Harry said pointedly, narrowing his eyes at his stupidly grinning friend who just laughed it off like usual.

"It's not _my_ fault you're giving me so much great material," Neville protested, popping several chips in his mouth (and then doing that reverse-blow thing because they were still too hot).

Ron wrapped an arm around Hermione's shoulders and declared, "I don't want any details. I just want to know who won your game and which one of us won the bet."

"Don't listen to him, Harry!" Hermione interjected, leaning forward (and out of Ron's embrace) in her enthusiasm. "We want _all_ of the details. But you have to wait until Hannah gets back or she'll be disappointed."

"My dearest wife is a bit too interested in the details, if you ask me," Neville complained into his lager. "It's bad for the ego."

"Oh, like _you_ have anything to worry about," Ron groused. "Bloody fit as a professional quidditch player with a 'face like an angel'," he sneered, quoting last year's Britain's Sexiest Wizards list (the first in which Neville had actually topped Harry's rank even though everyone had agreed he was more handsome for years; the ridiculous mystique of The-Boy-Who-Lived was finally wearing off). "You should've seen the glazed look in Hermione's eyes when she started wondering out loud which one of them might take the lead in the bedroom. Merlin's tits! Like I could ever compete with that."

"Oh Ron," Hermione reproved lovingly, relaxing back into the circle of his arm, "You're the only man for me, and you know it."

She eyed Harry sideways and her smile took on a mischievous slant, "Even if the idea of Harry and Draco together _is_ mind-numbingly sexy."

"' _Mione_!" Ron and Harry groaned in unison, while Hannah cheered, "I'll drink to that!" setting Harry's dinner on the table and pinching his glass for a swallow.

"See what I mean?" Neville pouted, but his face was filled with good humor.

"All right, lads, I've only got a minute--the pub's doing brisk business tonight," Hannah announced. "Who won the game, Harry?" she eagerly inquired.

Harry stammered as all eyes turned to him expectantly. "Er...We, uh...tied. The game, that is."

Hermione smiled knowingly while Ron blurted, " _Tied_?! How could you end with a tie?!" Harry refused to so much as  look at Neville.

"And who won our little wager, then?" he asked at Harry's side, wicked glee obvious in his tone.

Harry cleared his throat. "That would be...Hannah." He took a large gulp of ale to try to wash down some of his embarrassment.

"Yes! Pay up, suckers!" she gloated amidst a cacophony of shouts and grumbles.

While everyone dutifully counted their galleons into her open palm, Ron squinted, either in deep thought or constipation.

"Hold up," he said slowly, an idea clearly forming. "If you only had _one_ round like Hannah guessed, how could you have _tied_?"

Four sets of curious eyes turned to Harry once again and he felt rooted to the spot as his face flamed.

"Um. Well. Draco gave me his jumper and called it a tie so we could, uh..."

Both women shrieked like schoolgirls, Neville hooted, and Ron looked like he had smelled something unpleasant.

"I'm disappointed in you, mate," he said seriously, shaking his head. "That's no tie. You let Malfoy win! And that means I owe Neville another three galleons because you couldn't keep it in your pants for fifteen more minutes."

It was Hermione's turn to swat her husband but she put more force behind it than Hannah had. Harry snickered.

"Ronald, don't be rude!" she scolded while Ron hunched defensively.

"It's true, though, innit?" he muttered, all-but daring Hermione to hit him again.

Before she could, Harry said, "You should hold on to those galleons for now, Ron. Our game was more, um, _paused_ than actually finished. I still want to play until we have a clear winner."

"I'm sure you do," Neville ribbed, elbowing Harry in his.

"Merlin's sake, Neville!" Harry griped. "Keep your bloody pointy elbows to yourself!"

"I thought you liked 'em pointy these days, Harry," Ron quipped, looking mighty pleased with himself.

"Godrick! Not you, too!" Harry exclaimed, slapping a hand to his forehead in dismay.

Ignoring the men, Hermione fixed Harry with an earnest expression. "You used protection, I hope."

She raised her eyebrows expectantly as Harry seriously considered investing in new friends. Maybe Draco's were nicer than they seemed. (Not likely.)

"Draco did the spells," Harry mumbled, unable to make eye-contact but well aware that Hermione wouldn't drop it unless she got a satisfactory answer.

"Good," She nodded. "But you know how to do them yourself if you need to, right?"

Harry wished the bench seat would open up and swallow him whole.

"Lay off the man, 'Mione," Ron interrupted. Bless him.

"It's important!" Hermione protested. "I don't know what kind of research or preparation Harry has done. I should get him some books!" Her eyes lit up at the prospect.

"Enough!" Harry spoke up in his own defense, a bit too forcefully. "I've done enough," he clarified, more subdued. "And let's just leave it at that, yeah? Our dinner is getting cold."

Hermione looked like she was itching to ask more intrusive questions but, mercifully, she let it go.

They dug into their meals then and Harry finally relaxed in the company of his best friends. The heat and noise of the pub was a pleasant buzz in the background as they traded stories, insults, and laughs.

Really, the only thing missing was Draco.

\------

Miles away in Wiltshire, Draco was suffering through his own dinner. It was a radically different affair than the one Harry and his friends were enjoying. Just three occupants took up space at a grand oak table that could easily seat twenty, and the only sounds to be heard were the gentle clinking of silverware on china. That is, until Narcissa Malfoy delicately cleared her throat.

"Is the duck to your liking, Astoria?" she asked softly, ever the genteel hostess.

"Yes, Lady Malfoy, it is quite excellent. Thank you," Astoria answered promptly. The dutiful would-be daughter-in-law.

Draco's grip on his fork momentarily tightened before he forced himself to unclench his hand.

"And you, Draco? You have hardly touched your meal," Narcissa shrewdly observed.

"I find that I have lost my appetite rather suddenly," Draco responded, mouth tight.

Narcissa frowned her displeasure at his poor manners.

It wasn't that Astoria's company was so distasteful, Draco simply did not appreciate his mother's 'surprises' or her meddling. He had made it quite clear to both of his dinner companions in the past that he had no intention of following through on the betrothal contract his parents had negotiated with the Greengrasses on his behalf.

Draco picked up his goblet for a bracing sip of wine. Sensing the tension, Astoria engaged his mother in a discussion of the Manor gardens. It was a safe topic, if banal. Astoria's social graces were not lacking even though certain anatomical requirements for Draco's preferences were.

They passed the dessert course in uncomfortable relative silence. Astoria and Narcissa both made conversational overtures, but the knowledge of where Draco could be instead of this awkward, stilted engagement rendered him much too waspish to contribute more than minimal encouragers and terse replies. He pushed a bite of baked pear through the heavy syrup in his plate and counted down the seconds to meal's end.

As soon as the last plate was vanished by the house-elves, Draco offered to escort Astoria to the floo.

"It is early yet, Draco," Narcissa countered. "Perhaps you and Astoria could enjoy a stroll amongst the roses. They are ever so enchanting in the moonlight."

Demonstrating the wisdom that kept her in Draco's good graces for all that her presence was a thorn in his side, Astoria responded, "I fear my riding lessons have left me rather wearied this evening. I apologize sincerely. I shall accompany Draco to the drawing room. Thank you for your hospitality and the gift of your company, Lady Malfoy." She curtsied then, all willowy grace in her flowing lavender robes.

Reluctantly, Narcissa bid her farewells.

"I don't know why you keep saying yes to her invitations, Astoria," Draco uttered through gritted teeth once they had reached the relative privacy of the Green Drawing Room.

"I am still holding out hope you'll change your mind," she answered lightly, fingering the diamonds that sparkled against her slim neck. "As I have said before, I'm confident we can negotiate a mutually-satisfactory arrangement."

Draco reigned in his anger to reply evenly, "And as _I_ have said before, any 'arrangement' that has us sneaking around with our secret lovers will never be satisfactory to me. I fail to understand why that is good enough for you. You're a lovely woman; you should want a husband who recognizes and appreciates that fact."

"Clearly you can," she countered, blue eyes steely.

It was the same tired argument they'd had a dozen times before. Draco pinched his brow, attempting to stave off the headache that was forming behind his brow.

Astoria spoke softly, closer than she had been before Draco closed his eyes, "I think if you would just give it a chance, you might find that being intimate with me is not so repugnant as you fear."

She ghosted her dainty, feminine hand down the front of the Draco's robes. Draco caught and removed it before it reached his navel.

"I am seeing someone," he said quietly but firmly, wanting to spare her pride but unwilling to give any false hope, "but even if I weren't, my answer would be the same: No. I'm sorry."

Astoria's face shuttered, slipping into the cool mask that Draco himself frequently wore as armor.

"I see," she replied simply, taking a pinch of floo powder in hand to leave.

"The next time my mother asks you to dinner, I strongly urge you to decline," Draco advised, resting an arm against the mantel.

"My choices are my own, Draco," Astoria answered frostily. "Good night." And with that, she was gone in a swirl of pale silk and flames.

Draco sighed. One woman thus scorned and another still to deal with.

Merlin help him.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Siri can't tell the difference between "then" and "than" (and the like) and apparently I proof-read too quickly to notice it. Ugh. Apologies for typos and grammatical errors. The perils of posting without a beta.

As predicted, Draco found Narcissa in her drawing room, adjacent to what used to be his father's office (where Draco spent his Sundays tending to the family businesses and holdings). Regally perched atop her favorite settee, she appeared to be holding court for invisible attendants.

"Mother," he greeted softly, crossing the room to sit next to her on the richly embroidered satin.

"My darling boy," she sighed, taking his hand in her cool, slender fingers. They sat for a quiet moment before Narcissa asked, "Why is it that you persist in this mulish resistance to your betrothed?"

Draco silently counted to ten in Latin, resisting the compulsion to snatch his hand back in anger. "Because I am not going to marry her," he replied with unwavering determination.

Narcissa stiffened. "But she is an excellent match for you, in breeding, intellect, decorum, and every other trait of import. Much better than I had hoped we might be able to arrange in light of recent events."

That was as close as she ever got to talking about the war--oblique references to unfortunate circumstances and nothing more. It infuriated Draco.

"Maybe so. But _she_ is a woman and therein lies the problem."

Narcissa waved her hand dismissively. "Malfoys past have shared your...proclivities, as you well know, and they had no difficulty marrying and producing heirs, as is your responsibility, Draco."

"The Malfoys lost the right to dictate every facet of my life when their values nearly destroyed our family along with the rest of the Wizarding world," Draco countered, voice hardened by his conviction.

Narcissa inhaled once, sharply, and her hand spasmed around Draco's.

He continued more gently, "I don't mean to cause you distress, but this is a fight you will not win."

Narcissa's eyes shone with unshed tears. Draco took her hand between both of his and turned to face her.

"I know you want grandchildren, Mother, and I intend to continue the Malfoy line, but I will do so on _my_ terms. I am not going to marry someone just so she can bear me heirs while the two of us lead separate lives and carry on discreet affairs." (That hadn't worked out well for his parents, had it?) Draco's stomach clenched with dread but he pressed on, "And you should know that I am seeing someone."

Narcissa peered closely at him, piercing blue eyes taking in a great deal beyond the superficial. Draco put up occlumency shields as a precaution; his mother was a skilled legilimens.

"This is not a casual dalliance," she said eventually.

It wasn't a question. Draco answered anyway. "No, it is not. It's still new but--" he took a breath, fearing irrationally that speaking his wants aloud would somehow jinx them, "but I hope that it will last."

"Who is he?" Narcissa asked, voice crisp and melodic as tinkling glass (the soothing tones of lullabies Draco carried with him to this day).

"Harry Potter."

His mother's expression was unreadable, her gaze distant. "That _is_ different, isn't it," she murmured after a time, more to herself than Draco, it seemed.

Draco nodded, anxiously awaiting more of a response.

She turned her attention to him again. "Thank you for telling me, Draco," she said, withdrawing her hand from his and cradling the side of his face briefly.

"The excitement of the evening has left me tired. I believe I shall retire for the night." Narcissa stood, pressed soft lips to Draco's forehead, and swept out of the room.

Draco heaved a sigh, eyes unfocused on the spot his mother had recently vacated. He breathed deeply the light floral scent that lingered, using it as a centering point to gather his disorderly thoughts.

The conversation could have gone worse, all things considered, but he was uncertain about his mother's feelings and felt a measure of unease because of it. He turned her words (precious few that there were) over and over in his mind, attempting to determine nuanced possible meanings and hidden layers.

Ultimately abandoning the task for a fool's errand, Draco retreated to his rooms to unwind with a book before bed. They were largely unchanged since his school days (especially the prevalence of Slytherin green decor, where he tended more toward cool blues these days)--same heavy oaken desk, looming armoire, and ample bed piled high with decorative pillows and bolsters at his mother's insistence.

Draco often found comfort in consistency after the chaos of the war.

He perused his well-stocked bookcase, taking stock of Noctua's empty perch; she must be out hunting for the evening. He selected a tome on the integration of muggle alchemical techniques for magical purposes and stepped to his bed. He set the book on his nightstand and began to undress.

A knock sounded at the window.

Expecting his owl, Draco flicked his wand to admit what turned out to be a bird he didn't recognize.

It was rather late in the evening for post, and Draco's friends all had owls he knew by sight...

He traded treat for parchment and smirked at the familiar cramped lettering on the page.

_Dear Draco,_

_I wish you could've come with me to the Leaky. It was nice, but I missed you the whole time. Can I say that? Is it too forward? I don't want to scare you off. I fancy you quite a lot, you see. And I probably had too much to drink._

_In case you change your mind about coming back tonight, I'm leaving my floo open for you. The address is below. Even if it's late and I'm asleep when you arrive, wake me up. I'll be happier seeing the real you than just having dream you to keep me company._

_(Dream you is insatiable, though. So at least he's got that going for him.)_

_See you soon, I hope._

_Harry_

Mind made up alarmingly quickly, Draco returned to the Green Drawing Room and stepped into the floo.

\------

Harry awoke to the feeling of his mattress dipping and a warm somebody snuggling up next to him.

"Draco?" he asked, fumbling for his glasses.

"Were you expecting someone else?" Draco huffed against his jaw, nipping the tender skin there.

Harry grinned. Rolling on to his side to draw Draco closer, he discovered the man was in a delightful state of undress.

"I'm really glad you're here," he whispered, grasping and kneading Draco's smooth back and trailing his foot up Draco's calf.

"I couldn't stay away," Draco replied, squeezing Harry's waist and rocking gently into him. Harry didn't think he would ever tire of that sensation, or Draco's potent maleness. His hard lines and sharp edges were such a contrast to Ginny's soft, rounded body and they excited Harry to no end.

He was enjoying the slow build-up of unhurried hands, soft kisses, and steadily rolling hips, but his curiosity needled him. "How did it go?" he asked eventually.

Draco raised his mouth from Harry's skin only long enough to reply, "Fine."

Harry was disappointed. "That good, huh?" he said facetiously.

Draco didn't answer except for a mumble-growl followed by dragging his teeth down Harry's neck. Harry groaned and arched more insistently against Draco. He slid his palm down Draco's firm thigh, grabbed the back of his bended knee, and hitched his leg up to Harry's hip to gain some leverage for his increasingly desperate thrusting.

Draco moaned deliciously and gave as good as he got, scratching his nails down Harry's back and whispering absolute filth into Harry's ear that embarrassed him slightly but mostly just turned him on.

"You've got a dirty mouth," Harry panted.

"You had no complaints about my mouth this morning," Draco retorted smartly, adding a twist to the end of his thrusts that robbed Harry of his ability to speak.

A few moments more and the molten tension that pooled low in Harry's gut spiraled out into release. Draco was not far behind. Harry sought Draco's nipple with his free hand and gave it a firm pinch. Draco arched his neck and came with Harry's name in his mouth. Harry held him close through the tremors of his descent, murmuring nonsense and kissing the points of his face.

Harry felt boneless and sated and like everything was right in the world (for once).

"Will you stay?" he whispered, stroking Draco's hair and twining the ends around his fingers.

Draco was silent long enough for Harry to fear the answer. Then he replied, so quietly Harry wasn't sure he actually heard it at first, "Yes."

Harry beamed and pulled Draco closer.

"But only if you cast a bloody cleaning charm," Draco grumbled into Harry's shoulder. "I refuse to wake up sticky two mornings in a row."

Harry snorted. "No need to get tetchy," he replied, and cast the gentlest charm he knew. He and Draco both shivered at the touch of magic then arranged themselves more comfortably for sleep.

"Have I mentioned how thankful I am that Minerva had the floo system connected in all the staff rooms?" Harry asked after a minute. "'Cause it's a lot. Like really, _really_ thankful."

Draco chuckled. "Go to sleep," he said, tucking Harry's head under his chin.

Shortly thereafter, Harry did.

\------

Draco snuck back into the Manor just before dawn, but he needn't have bothered with stealth.

"You left last night," his mother noted dryly over breakfast, not bothering to lift her gaze from the pages of the Daily Prophet.

Draco almost choked on his juice. "I had some unfinished business at the castle," he hedged, wondering how she knew. Did the house-elves rat him out? Or maybe she set an alarm charm on the floo...

"You should invite your Mr Potter to the Manor," Narcissa replied without missing a beat.

Draco carefully set his glass on the table, lest he drop it in response to his mother's next alarming declaration. "I will," he said (after he was sure he could do so without a catch in his voice).

"Good." Narcissa turned a page with her wand to avoid ink smudging her fingers and appeared engrossed in whatever she was reading.

Minutes passed by with nothing but the muffled sounds of eating and the rustle of the paper. Unable to bite his tongue any longer, Draco spoke.

"Pardon my bluntness, but you seem to be taking the news about Harry much more calmly than I anticipated. Why is that?"

Narcissa set the Prophet aside and looked at Draco intently.

"You have never been in what I would label a serious relationship with a man before," she began. Draco wanted to squirm in his seat; they seldom talked so openly about such things. "Because of that, I thought perhaps you were driven more by a physical preference than an emotional one and so might be persuaded to develop a satisfying bond with a woman someday. But you have had strong feelings for Mr Potter for many years--if he returns even a portion of those feelings, your relationship is worthy of consideration."

Draco was dumbfounded.

"Close your mouth, dear," his mother chided, the hint of a smile playing about her eyes. Draco complied with an audible click.

Narcissa returned to her paper while Draco tried to make sense of this unforeseen turn of events. In spite of his bemusement, a pleasant warmth radiated from his chest to his fingertips (that felt a lot like contentment). It was a feeling Draco was unaccustomed to, but found he quite liked.


	30. Chapter 30

Later that day, Draco was working on updating the ledgers for the mining operation in Mongolia (a nicely profitable one, that) when the pop of apparation heralded a house-elf's arrival.

"Master Draco, sir, Luffkins is sorry to be disturbing your work but Miss Parkinson is in the floo." The elf yanked his prodigious ear hair, ostensibly for the crime of interrupting Draco's efforts.

"That's fine, Luffkins," Draco dismissed, setting his quill down on the desk. "Tell Pansy I will be right there."

The elf nodded obediently. He bowed until his lumpy forehead nearly scraped the ground then disappeared with another quiet pop.

When Draco arrived at the floo Pansy was wearing her most furious scowl (a work of art she had practiced and perfected since she was still in nappies). Her hands were on her hips and one index finger drummed an impatient tattoo on her patent leather belt. Draco noted absently that the long, painted nail was filed to a point. _She probably uses it to gouge her victims_ , he thought snidely.

"You wipe that smirk off your face," Pansy spat. "It has been more than twenty four hours since you bumped uglies with Harry Potter and I've yet to hear a _single_ word from you! I had to learn it from _Blaise_ , you unbelievable shithead. Do you have any idea how much the smug bastard gloated about the fact he knew before me?"

Draco grinned. "You are a paragon of womanly virtues," he drawled, "with the vocabulary of a longshoreman."

"So help me, Draco, I will make arrangements for international floo travel and strangle you with my own two hands if you don't start talking this very moment."

There was a good chance she meant it so he relented. "I apologize for not calling sooner, Pans. I was otherwise engaged with the reason for this chat."

"I want to know everything," she proclaimed, demanding her due as Draco's best friend of more than a decade. In deference to her privileged position, he told her everything. (With a few strategic edits; some details were for him and Harry alone).

Pansy sighed wistfully when he was through. "Darling, you're in deep."

"I am well aware," Draco replied, frowning slightly. He honestly didn't know how he and Harry had come so far so fast. Maybe it was their shared history. Or the undeniable connection that had always bound them, bolstered, perhaps, by their mutual life debts. Or even some ancient magic in the stones of Hogwarts itself. _Who could say?_

The fact remained that Draco was utterly besotted, and it was both exhilarating and unnerving. He second guessed Harry's intentions nearly as often as he was overcome with the urge to kiss the man, and a part of him was waiting for the moment the fates (which hadn't been particularly kind to Draco during his formative years) would inevitably rescind the favor of Harry's affections. He had learned the hard way to be skeptical of circumstances that seemed too good to be true, the way everything about the past several days with Harry did.

But he remembered Harry's letter from last night--tucked into the bottom of a warded drawer for safekeeping--and the guileless declarations therein. While the reality seemed much too good for someone like him, it was, by all accounts, true.

Improbably, exquisitely so.

\------

Harry answered a knock on his door some time around nine that night. He had been revising the upcoming unit on the differences between Light and Dark spells. In his opinion, the division was a lot less clear cut than the old curriculum made it seem.  

"Hullo stranger," he smiled, leaning against the wood.

Draco arched a brow, but Harry saw his lips twitch with a smile suppressed. "Aren't you going to invite me in?" he asked imperiously.

"By all means," Harry replied, sweeping his arm like a maître d'.

Draco brushed past him and into Harry's living space. His appraising gaze scanned the whole of the sitting room, which he'd yet to see with the lights on. Harry tried to assess it through Draco's eyes.

He wasn't a very messy person in general (Petunia's ridgid standards of cleanliness had seen to that), but he had done a bit of extra tidying up in case Draco came to visit and he was glad for it now. The room looked about as good as it got, excepting the books and papers Harry had been working with.

The green wingback chair he'd modeled the one in their secret room after was positioned near the fireplace. Across from it was a small brown microfiber couch--more of a loveseat, really--Harry had picked up in a muggle furniture store. It had a fluffy tan throw blanket draped over the back. Detesting scratchy fabrics, Harry tended to select both his clothing and his furniture on the basis of how comfortable it was before he considered how it actually looked, but he thought he had done all right with coordinating his rooms around nice, foresty colors. The unfinished wooden chest he had in place of a coffee table contributed to the theme.

He didn't have many photos but an assortment of Teddy's drawings decorated walls that were otherwise bare. Harry's favorite was the stick-figure version of him, Ron, and Hermione escaping Gringotts on the back of the dragon--Teddy was enamored with that story, as any six-year-old boy would be, and begged Harry to tell it every time he saw him. There were no windows in the sitting room but there was one in his bedroom, thankfully; Harry felt somewhat claustrophobic without them. (It had been a huge relief to learn Draco's rooms weren't below the lake's surface like the Slytherin dorms. Those underwater windows made him nervous.)

"Adequate," Draco pronounced snobbishly when he had completed his inspection.

Harry snorted. "I'll just go ahead and consider that high praise given the source." He extended his hand toward the couch, "Have a seat, your majesty."

Draco smirked. "I like the way that sounds. You may continue to refer to me by title." He stepped further into the room and perched on the couch's arm--the prat couldn't even follow a simple direction properly.

"Ok, _you royal wanker_ ," Harry teased, "can I get you a drink?"

Draco chuckled. The sound was warm and dry like a breeze through summer grasses. It filled Harry with joy.

"None for me, thank you. But feel free."

Harry decided he didn't need one, mostly he just offered to be polite. He sat on the couch and tumbled Draco into his lap with an arm around his waist. Draco flailed and spluttered at the indignity, but Harry silenced him with a kiss. He immediately went limp in Harry's arms, soft and compliant as a kitten, and returned the kiss with a sigh of contentment.

"I missed you," Harry whispered against his lips.

"I've only been gone since this morning," Draco argued (more for the sake of arguing than any valid reason, Harry decided), but he didn't bother trying to right himself, which pleased Harry immensely.

"I still missed you," he asserted, rubbing the tip of his nose against Draco's.

Draco rolled his eyes. "You are disgustingly sentimental."

"And _you're_ a right bastard," Harry grinned, "but here we are."

"Here we are," Draco echoed, gazing softly at Harry. Then he pulled Harry's head down until their lips crashed.

He threaded his fingers through Harry's hair and swept his tongue into his mouth. Even though Harry was bent rather uncomfortably (it felt like his ribs were digging into his vital organs), snogging a ready, willing Draco was worth almost any cost. Draco scraped his nails on Harry's scalp, giving him chills, and nibbled and sucked his bottom lip until it felt swollen.

Harry snaked his left hand into Draco's robes and ran his palm up and down his side, feeling the heat of his body through the thin material of his undershirt. What he really wanted was skin-on-skin contact but he didn't think he could get the shirt untucked at the awkward angle and with his off-hand, so he contented himself with stroking the roof of Draco's mouth with his tongue.

Minutes later, Harry broke away to catch his breath and give his burning lungs a break. "You're really good at that," he panted, somewhat dazed.

"Yes, I am," Draco agreed conceitedly.

"And so modest, too!" Harry exclaimed, pinching Draco's side.

Draco swatted his hand away and pulled himself upright using Harry's shoulders for leverage. "I have _many_ fine qualities," he responded unironically (though his dignified air was somewhat hindered by the state of his hair and robes). "Take me to your bedroom and I'll show you some more."

Harry didn't need to be told twice.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluuuuuff! I just can't resist, you guys.

Much later, while Draco's heartbeat slowed in the pleasant afterglow of mutual gratification, he remembered that he had something to say. He levered himself up with his hands on Harry's chest so he could look him in the eye.

"Mother invited you to the Manor. And Mipsy was able to repair your shirt, as I suspected."

"She _what_?" Harry gawped.

"She repaired your shirt. The emerald silk one. It was no challenge for a quality house-elf like her." Draco fought to keep his expression bland as Harry's brows knitted and he pursed his lips in irritation.

Harry squinted at him. "You're being deliberately obtuse."

"Ooh! Big words! I'm impressed," Draco simpered, knowing it would annoy Harry further. "Did you learn them from Ms Granger-Weasley over the weekend?"

He expected Harry to give him a dirty look or attempt a witty retort, maybe even throw a playful punch. He hadn't counted on the possibility of Harry using some kind of Auror maneuver to flip him on his back, pin his forearms to the bed with his knees, and tickle him into submission.

"What are you...a...prepubescent... _girl_?" He choked out between gasping fits of involuntary laughter. He bucked and kicked and squirmed to try to unseat Harry, but the git was heavier than he looked and damnably well-balanced. Harry dug his fingers into Draco's sides until he was giggling so hard he couldn't even draw breath.

When Draco started feeling the first inklings of panic, Harry gave him a moment's respite. He tried to glare while gulping mouthfuls of air, which was easier said than done.

"Do you surrender?" Harry smirked, cruel fingers poised at the ready.

Draco hesitated. Harry resumed his assault.

" _Yes_ , damn you! Yes," Draco wheezed. "Now get off me...you oaf." He threw his hips to the side and Harry rolled off, graceful as a leopard. Draco palpated his tender ribs. "I think you bruised me, you ham-handed ruffian," he complained.

"I forgot you are a delicate flower," Harry retorted wryly, sitting upright on the bed. "My apologies."

Draco stared at him, narrow-eyed and frowning. "I find myself doubting your sincerity," he intoned.

Harry merely shrugged.

Draco tugged the blankets that had been dislodged in their tussle back over his body. Even with heating charms firmly in place, November's chill seeped in through the castle's walls. Harry was a human furnace and increasingly comfortable being nude around Draco, so he was fine sitting cross-legged in the altogether on the far side of the bed.

"Are you ready to explain the bit about your mum?" he asked, vexingly self-satisfied.

Draco felt rash enough to risk his ire with one last taunt (emboldened by the fact he'd snuck his wand under the covers). "I genuinely thought you'd be more interested in the welfare of your shirt. You were terribly distraught when it was damaged."

Harry shook his head in fond exasperation (it was one of Draco's favorite emotions on him, his very favorite being whimpering lust). "You're the _worst_ ," he rebuked.

Draco allowed his affectation of innocence to melt into a decidedly wicked grin. "Yes, but you knew that going in."

Harry huffed a laugh. "I suppose I did." He lifted the edge of the bedclothes and ordered Draco to "Budge up." Draco only complied because he wanted Harry's body heat back. As soon as he was settled, Draco pressed his feet against Harry's thighs.

"Merlin's pants, Draco!" Harry yelped, lurching away, "Your feet are like ice!"

"It's your fault for pulling the blankets off me," Draco maintained. He followed after Harry and wrapped his body around him like a barnacle. Harry gave up the fight with an exaggeratedly put-upon sigh and draped his arm across Draco's torso.

It was better than any warming charm.

"Anyway," Draco began, delighting in the heat radiating off of Harry, "Mother said I should invite you to the Manor so this is me inviting you to the Manor."

"When?"

"She didn't specify a date. You could come with me next weekend if you wanted." Draco said it casually, but he was anxious for Harry to agree.

"Do _you_ want me to?" Harry pressed.

Draco scowled. He was sensing hesitation from Harry and he didn't like it. "Of course I want you to," he replied testily. "I would not have said anything if I didn't. But if you don't want to, that's fine," (It wasn't). "I can make excuses on your behalf."

"That's not what I meant, Draco. Don't go off in a strop," Harry admonished. Draco took umbrage, but Harry continued, "I was just surprised, is all. Yesterday it seemed like your mother wasn't exactly keen on the idea of the two of us together so I wondered how sincere this invitation really was."

Draco weighed Harry's words and judged them reasonable so he relaxed somewhat. "One can never be entirely certain with Mother," he acknowledged, "but she seemed sincere."

"Then I would be honored to accompany you to the Manor this weekend," Harry replied, speaking formally in a transparent attempt to charm a smile out of him.

Embarrassingly, it worked.

After a minute, Harry asked, "Do you think you could coach me on what utensils to use with which course and maybe some responses to questions your mum might ask? I want to make a good impression."

Draco's chest ached with the weight of affection he felt for Harry in response. "Absolutely," he replied. "Why don't you come to my rooms after dinner tomorrow for some private lessons?"

Harry grinned. "That sounds great, as long as you make time to teach me about forks and spoons and stuff, too," he answered, cheekily implying an entendre where there had been none. (Ok, maybe there was a little.) "We should also finish our game of snap soon," he added.

"You haven't had any trouble getting my clothes off since the last time we played," Draco observed archly. 

"That's true," Harry smiled, "but I have some questions for you still, and Ron was not best pleased with where we left off."

"All right," Draco yielded, thinking the idea had merit, "As long as you promise not to pout when I beat you."

Harry scoffed but said, "Your terms are acceptable," and rested his head on Draco's shoulder.

They laid in cozy silence after that. Draco's breathing steadied to match Harry's, regulated by the even tempo of his pulse.

Just when he began to drift off, Harry asked, "Will you stay?" shy as he had been the night before.

Draco nestled in closer. "Yes, Harry," he whispered.

_For as long as you'll have me._


	32. Chapter 32

Harry was in the Forbidden Forest. A thick, dark fog closed in around him, its bitter cold leeching the heat from his very bones and all traces of hope and happiness from his spirit. Skeletal trees loomed overhead, branches like menacing claws. His heart pounded and his wand hand shook. His feeble _lumos_ did little to dispel the oppressive gloom.

No matter how lightly he tried to step, leaves crunched and twigs snapped underfoot. The sounds seemed to echo impossibly loudly, alerting all manner of hostile creatures to his presence. He could hear them snarling and growling as they stalked his progress and he occasionally caught glimpses of shadows moving in his periphery.

Beneath the dry litter, his trainers sunk into freezing, squelching mud. It sucked at his legs with every step until his thighs began to tremble from strain. His socks were soaked, his feet numb. His trousers kept snagging on thorny underbrush and had to be ripped free constantly, they hung in tatters below his knees. A particularly sharp branch slashed a deep gouge in his right calf--Harry nearly cried out from the sudden, stinging pain, but he kept his mouth shut and stumbled on.

He was walking to his death.

And he was alone.

The stone had summoned his loved ones lost, but they would not accompany him on this final journey. They had looked at him with a heartbreaking mixture of disappointment, hatred, and sorrow, shaken their heads in mute refusal, and faded into the mist. Harry apologized again and again (long after they were gone), tears streaming down his face and throat raw, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.

He understood, though; he was the reason they were dead, after all. His parents, Sirius, Remus, Cedric, Fred, Moody, even Hedwig--their blood was on his hands and nothing would ever bring them back or right that wrong. The only thing Harry could do was die and bring an end to all the pain and suffering. So onward he trudged.

Weighed down by guilt, grief, and bone-deep weariness, he barely had the strength to lift his aching feet, but the fate of the world rested squarely on his shoulders so he put one foot in front of the other until he finally arrived in the clearing where the Death Eaters stood.

Voldemort's eyes glowed like two burning coals in his inhuman face. His sibilant taunts coiled around Harry and squeezed, binding him in place as surely as if Nagini herself had wrapped him in her powerful body, and speared into his mind, tearing his thoughts asunder. His skull felt like it would split from the pressure, his lungs shuddered and pulled for breath that wouldn't come, and his heart slammed against his breastbone like a terrified bird in a cage.

He was _so_ tired. And everything hurt so, so much. He almost longed for the sweet release of death.

But when the flash of green erupted from Voldemort's wand, it was neither quick, nor painless. Harry's scar sang with a blinding, searing pain that burned away everything he had once been--his feelings, his memories, his purpose, his sense of self. He became a being of pure, perfect agony.

He opened a mouth he was no longer sure he possessed and screamed. But no sound came out.

He screamed on and on, through the soul-shredding anguish and the certainty it would never end--

" _Harry_! Harry, **wake up**!"

Harry's consciousness struggled to surface from the disorienting jumble of burgeoning awareness and half-remembered misery. He blinked until his eyes focused (as much as they would without his glasses) on Draco's worried face.

He was in Draco's bed.

It had been a dream.

Recollections of the day came rushing back--stolen glances and private smiles at mealtimes, struggling to attend to his classes when all he wanted was to fast forward to the end of the day, Draco drilling him on proper pureblood etiquette (insulting Harry's intelligence when he couldn't for the life of him remember what the stupid tiny fork was for and rewarding him with kisses when he finally got it right), falling into bed together and learning even more about what two creative, motivated men could get up to when they put their minds and bodies to the task, Draco preempting Harry's nervous speculation afterward by haughtily declaring, "I expect you to stay," and Harry rolling his eyes even though he was immensely relieved.

They'd spent the last four nights in a row together. It was bound to happen eventually.

Harry exhaled forcefully, trying to expel with the breath the lingering malaise of the dream and his embarrassment at having woken Draco up because of it. "I have nightmares sometimes," he explained (unnecessarily), rubbing his aching scar with the heal of his palm.

"I figured," Draco responded, forced casualness belied by the concern in his eyes. He moved Harry's hand away from his forehead and took over massaging the scar with firm circles of his thumbs, rubbing Harry's temples with his middle two fingers as he did so. "Pomfrey has Dreamless Sleep in the infirmary..." He offered, trailing off so as to not sound pushy, Harry thought.

It was a night for uncomfortable revelations, it seemed. "I can't really take dreamless sleep anymore," he mumbled, fighting a knot of shame. "I had a bit of a problem with it a few years back."

That was an understatement. Ginny had been beside herself with worry, then anger when Harry refused to see a Healer. It wasn't until she'd told Hermione and Ron and all three of them had laid the guilt-trip on thick with a bloody _intervention_ that Harry gave in.

The Healer confirmed their fears, to Harry's dismay. He hadn't realized it had gotten so bad. St Mungo's did an admirable job of keeping quiet while Harry sweated and sicked-up through the horrible withdrawal process. Kingsley was the only person in the Ministry besides Ron and Hermione who knew. He arranged for Harry to 'travel to Bulgaria for six weeks of specialized combat training' while Harry recovered in his flat under Ginny and Kreacher's care.

Ordinarily Kreacher split his time between Hogwarts and Grimmauld Place because Ginny didn't like having him in their flat, but she couldn't take all that time off from her job without raising suspicion. And Kreacher was a good elf, for all his crankiness. He doted on Harry and seemed glad to have an opportunity to actually serve him for a change.

After that it was twice-weekly sessions with a Mind Healer that were a load of rubbish in Harry's opinion. The woman was as bad as Skeeter, practically slavering for the juicy bits of Harry's life that no one else knew. And she had no practical advice for overcoming recurring nightmares about losing every person he had ever loved, being imprisoned in a cupboard, having had a piece of someone else's evil soul attached like a parasite to his own, and, you know, _dying_.

Hermione said Harry should keep searching until he found a Mind Healer he liked but he just didn't have the energy or the will to tell his story over again in the vain hope that someone would understand. So he gave the right answers to Healer Buchanan, smiled when he was supposed to smile and frowned when he was supposed to frown, and completed his required sessions with a minimum of investment...

Draco's hands stilled. It was only for a moment, but Harry noticed. _He must be horrified_. _Repulsed_. 

Harry curled in on himself, mentally calculating the logistics of apparating through Hogwarts' heavy wards to the sanctuary of his rooms.

\------

Draco was staggered.

Dreamless Sleep was notoriously habit-forming--which is why he himself only ever used it sparingly, in spite of the strong temptation to do otherwise--but he had no idea Harry had been _addicted_ , as he seemed to be implying.

He wondered if it was Harry or someone else who realized he had a problem and how he managed the withdrawals, which were quite nasty, without the press catching on. Harry would have had to take at least three weeks off from work and would have been shaky for a month or more afterward. And he would have required medical supervision for all of that time. Apparently St Mungo's meant it when they said they would respect patient confidentiality. He was grudgingly impressed.

But those were musings for another day. He could feel Harry pulling away--physically as well as emotionally--and it was apparent that he was ashamed and fearful of Draco's response. Which was absurd, really. In fact, Draco would be irritated by it if he wasn't so busy feeling sympathetic toward the man.

"Harry, look at me." It was spoken gently, but that it was a command was unmistakable.

Harry did. Draco could tell it had been a struggle, though.

He cupped the back of Harry's neck in his hand, working the thick bundles of tension he encountered there as he spoke. "We all have bad dreams sometimes," he began, conveying as much non-judgmental compassion as he could with his tone (it wasn't a sentiment he'd had much occasion to practice). "With everything you've gone through, it's a wonder you _ever_ have an uninterrupted night of sleep." He paused for breath, choosing his words carefully. "I assume it was worse the first few years after the war--I know it was for me. You had very good reasons for using the potion to get a good night's rest."

"Using it once-in-a-while to get a night of sleep and using it until I literally couldn't sleep without it are two very different things," Harry countered sulkily, but Draco knew the resentment was self-directed.

"That's true," he granted, "but if I regularly had dreams half as bad as that one seemed, I probably would have ended up addicted myself. As it stands, my nightly occlumency routine coupled with an intimate familiarity with every potion's side effects is probably the only thing that kept that from happening anyway. It's not as if you have a monopoly on unpleasant memories."

It surprised Draco how easy that had been to admit. Harry was right that the equitable trading of secrets made the sharing much more tolerable. Revealing this fact simply put the both of them back on equal footing, rather than giving Harry material that could be used against him.

Harry looked thoughtful. "The occlumency helps?" he queried, intrigued.

"I no longer have dreams I do not wish to have," Draco answered. He meant to sound matter-of-fact but he knew a modicum of pride had slipped into his tone. But so what--he _was_ proud. His peace of mind had been hard won.

Harry's eyes widened and his mouth mirrored them in a little 'o.' "Could you teach me?" he solicited, breathlessly eager.

 _Salazar_ , Draco would hang the moon for Harry if he asked like that.

"I can certainly try."

Harry beamed and pulled Draco into his embrace. Draco didn't appreciate being manhandled, nor was he a fan of the clammy sweat cooling on Harry's body (a likely byproduct of that bloodcurdling nightmare), but he did not have it in him to protest. Not when Harry softened so readily against him and finally relaxed after waking them both so alarmingly.

Even if their occlumency lessons were an abject failure and the nightmares continued unabated, Draco wouldn't trade having Harry in his bed for anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are there any grammarians out there who can help me understand when to use into versus in to? I'm all over the map with it in this story and it's embarrassing. I've asked the Internet for help but I'm still confused :S


	33. Chapter 33

Tuesday and Wednesday went much the same as Monday had--except without another nightmare, thankfully. Draco added occlumency lessons to his pureblood tutorials, per Harry's request.

While he was infinitely more patient and kind than Snape had ever been, he was just as demanding. And Harry was disappointed to learn that even delicate legilimency felt distressingly violating, as another mind tried to force its way into his own against his will.

Fortunately Draco didn't do it often--just once at the outset to test Harry's baseline occlumency proficiency (poor) and again the next day to see if he'd progressed at all after practicing Draco's visualization techniques (he hadn't; his imaginary brick wall crumbled to dust with just a bit of prodding from Draco).

Harry was terribly discouraged but Draco assured him he was a more skillful Legillimens than most. He aslo speculated that their intimacy made it harder for Harry to shut him out because he'd already opened so much of himself to Draco. Although his word choice caused Harry to blush, the explanation made sense enough to lessen his bitter disappointment. Even so, the experience was sufficiently unpleasant that he would have abandoned the project as soon as it was begun if the idea of nightmare-free sleep wasn't so alluring. But Draco was confident Harry would make headway if they kept at it.

Unfortunately, the mental and emotional fatigue of their lessons left Harry so worn out that they hadn't done anything but _sleep_ by the time he dragged himself into bed both nights. At least Draco kept saying he expected Harry to stay. He was so much...sweeter than Harry ever would have guessed given his usual prickly and condescending demeanor. It was a pleasant surprise and Harry smiled to think of it (along with how indignant Draco would be if he told him so).

The downside of spending so much of their free time together was that they'd both fallen behind on their class work. They agreed to spend Thursday apart in order to make some headway on their respective backlogs of marking and student inquiries. By dinner that evening, Harry was chomping at the bit for alone time with Draco, but he reckoned it was for the best--it wasn't realistic to spend every spare moment together. They'd have to learn to balance their obligations against the obsessive desire for each other's company, or else their relationship would give way under the demands of real life.

Harry had a plan for Friday, though.

He penned four missives and a stack of notes--blotted and marked over until they were almost unintelligible, but he knew the gist--and summoned Kreacher to deliver the letters to the owlery for him. The house-elf was delighted to oblige. He brewed a pot of tea, fluffed Harry's pillows, and cast a quick dusting charm before departing with a thunderous crack, letters in hand. (It used to make Harry jump but he'd grown accustomed to Kreacher's idiosyncrasies.) He shook his head fondly and turned his attention to the intimidating pile of ungraded essays. He would be burning his candles to stumps that night. But it was ok--he wasn't looking forward to sleeping alone anyway, so it could only help if he exhausted himself first.

Amped on nervous energy and Kreacher's strong brew, Harry set to work.

\------

Draco set down his quill and tried to shake the writing cramp out of his hand. He'd been marking for nearly two hours. He felt guilty about how many of his duties he'd ignored this past week, but he couldn't find the will to be too upset over it since he'd been busy shagging _Harry Potter_ instead. No one in their right mind would fault him for the decision.

 _But you haven't even been physically intimate in two days_ , a niggling voice reminded him. _And you haven't technically_ shagged _since the first time._

Harry hadn't initiated and Draco wasn't going to pressure him. They'd had plenty of satisfying experiences anyway; it's not like either one was suffering from a dearth of orgasms (especially not when Draco was driven to such distraction by his wholly-inappropriate mid-class daydreams he'd had to skip lunch and pull himself off to get through the afternoon with his dignity intact). But the lack of sex plus a decidedly Hufflepuff level of snuggling meant Draco had been fobbing off his work for something much more complicated than simply getting a leg over a fit bloke with a gorgeous arse and a goofy smile.

A tapping at the window interrupted his reflection (which was just as well, his brow had been furrowed and he was loathe to give himself wrinkles).

A snowy owl bearing a parchment for Draco settled next to Noctua on her perch. It was plenty wide enough for two; Draco spoiled his bird shamelessly, which is why she roosted in his rooms rather than with the Hogwarts owls. The parchment bore a single line of text:

_Can I take you to out to dinner tomorrow?_

Draco's breath caught and his chest bloomed with warmth. He was disproportionately pleased by such a brief note.

He wrote an equally succinct response below the question and sent it with Noctua, instructing the snowy owl to return to the owlery.

_In Hogsmead?_

Harry's reply arrived a few minutes later. Draco hadn't managed to get any work done in the meantime, though he had tried valiantly.

...

_I was thinking Diagon, actually. (And your bloody bird scared me half to death! I don't think she likes me very much. What was wrong with the other owl?)_

...

Draco was entertained to imagine what Noctua may have done to give Harry that impression--she could be quite devious. And he was surprised and flattered that Harry would even consider taking him somewhere as public as Diagon, where their appearance surely would not go unnoticed. Harry might not be thinking through all of the potential consequences, however.

 _We'd be mobbed,_ he wrote. _And Noctua doesn't like anybody except for me--it is one of her best traits. She would have thrown a fit if I had used the other owl. (She is a jealous bird_.)

Noctua gave a disgruntled chirrup when he tied the scroll to her again but she was easily soothed with an affectionate stroke and a mouse-flavored treat.

Draco returned to his marking while he awaited Harry's response. Once again, he accomplished very little before Noctua returned, looking pleased with herself this time. "What manner of mischief have you been up to?" he inquired fondly. She blinked large orange eyes at him, feigning ignorance.

But the answer to Draco's question was suggested by a coppery spot--almost certainly blood--next to Harry's text, which had a new sheet of parchment attached to it.

...

_That owl is a menace! She nearly took my finger off when I tried to get the letter from her._

...

Draco sniggered but said to Noctua, "You must be nicer to Harry. We _like_ Harry." She fluffed her feathers and turned her back on him, as if to say she was not obligated to like _anybody_ if she so chose. Draco attended to the missive, amused by her antics. That bird was Malfoy through and through.

...

_Anyway, I was sort of counting on that. I thought maybe we could give the scoop to the Quibbler--Luna would be nothing but supportive. If we break the news in the morning edition, we have a bit more control over the situation's variables. We could drop a hint about our plans for the evening and hold something of an impromptu press conference before or after the meal._

_I took the liberty of writing an official statement and sending it to her, but I told her to hold off on printing it until you gave final approval. I figured you'd want to take a look at it._

...

 _Quite right! Good grief, Potter_ , Draco thought. They were supposed to be catching up on their work, not drafting press releases. At least the presumptuous knob had the good sense to seek Draco's blessing before moving forward.

He examined the second sheet of parchment. It was the most legible Draco had ever seen from Harry (which meant it looked like it had been scratched onto the page by a semi-literate drunkard rather than a small child with a lazy eye).

...

_To whom it may concern,_

_It has been ten months since my ex-wife and I legally divorced due to irreconcilable differences. As you probably know, I also left the Auror Department and became the Defense Against the Dark Arts Instructor at Hogwarts this year._

_It has been a season of many changes and significant self-examination in my life._

_What will likely come as a surprise to many of you is that I am currently in a romantic relationship with a man. As a result of my employment at the school, I have had the privilege of becoming reacquainted with Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts' Potions Master, and discovering that he is someone who both challenges me and brings me joy._

_I am making this information public for two reasons:_

_First and foremost, because it pleases me to do so. I have no intention of conducting this relationship in secret, as though it was a source of shame. It's not._

_Additionally, I hope to avoid endless speculation and intrusive questions into what is ultimately a private matter._

_My sexuality is my own. It is not up for discussion or debate. I ask that you would respect our privacy, as well as that of my ex-wife and family. I swear we will conduct ourselves with the utmost professionalism while in the presence of the students for whom we are responsible and will take every precaution to ensure our relationship does not have a negative impact on our jobs, which we both hold in the highest esteem._

_I will not be granting any interviews at this time but I can assure you that I am not under the influence of any mind-altering potions or spells and I am in possession of my full faculties. Please note that I will **not** tolerate any reports to the contrary, and my solicitor is on retainer should any less-reputable news outlets decide to print libelous stories on this subject. _

_Sincerely yours,_

_Harry James Potter, Professor, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,_ _Order of Merlin, First Class_

...

Draco was speechless.

Harry was more politically savvy than he'd realized; maybe the skill was a parting gift from his stint with the Aurors. Reminding would-be readers about the Order of Merlin was particularly shrewd, and Harry had anticipated and deftly addressed a number of likely concerns in the span of a few short paragraphs.

Never mind the fact he had claimed Draco, ex-Death Eater and general wizard-of-ill-repute, as his inamorato in no uncertain terms.

Draco flushed with pride at Harry's unapologetic alliegance to him and the tremendous risk he was willing to take because of it. By making this statement, he was opening himself up to a world of derision and scorn. Not that that would be new for Harry, but it would be different than any shitstorm he had experienced before. His status as the Savior would only buy him so much goodwill from the public; he had to know all the plausible ramifications of giving Loony the go-ahead before Draco would allow him to follow through with it.

But the thought of those scoundrels at the Prophet not only losing the story-of-the-year to the Quibbler, but also having Harry call their rag disreputable in comparison was delightful. Draco wished he could see the looks on their faces when they read the story, assuming Harry stuck to his conviction and let it run.

And when had he ever done otherwise?

Draco felt tense with nervous excitement, like his first time on a practice broom. But he had only been a few feet off the ground then, with his parents at his side, wands at the ready to catch him if he fell.

This time it was just him and Harry.

But Harry had caught him before. Draco had every confidence he would do it again, should the need arise. The Prophet could do their worst.

Draco inked his reply.

...

( _Have you gotten_ any _work done? That was the point of this evening apart, if you recall._ )

_I will not abide being excluded the next time you feel compelled to boost newspaper sales. I will forgive you this once because your press release is surprisingly...acceptable (and because Noctua wasn't on her best behavior. Apologies for the bite-wound). _

_We will need to notify McGonagall so she'll be ready for the reporters that come knocking on the wards and inundate her with owls for comment as soon as this goes to print, not to mention the inevitable resurgence of Howlers. You can be sure that the same witches and wizards who pitched a fit about my teaching appointment will be foaming at the mouth over this scandal. (Think of the children, Harry! They will be traumatized by our gayness. It might even be catching.)_

_You should also consider notifying the Weaselette (Ginerva). No matter how nicely you ask, her privacy won't be respected. That's the way news works. A fair warning would likely be appreciated. Additionally, it would be worth ascertaining what kind of statement she might make in response. I do not know how amicably you split, but given that she has kept quiet this long about the true reason for the divorce, she probably won't air your dirty laundry when presented with the opportunity to do so. Nevertheless, it is a possibility you should be aware of and prepared for._

... 

Noctua glared at Draco when he asked for her leg so he could affix the parchment. He told her what a beautiful and peerless bird she was and promised her actual mice if she would deliver the letter like a good girl and refrain from terrorizing Harry further. She grudgingly presented her ankle to him. He attached the parchment and sent her off with a kiss.

He gave up the pretense of getting any more work done that night. He passed the time awaiting Harry's reply with his nightly ablutions followed by a cup of chamomile tea to help him unwind. (There had been quite a lot of excitement for a Thursday evening.)

Before his tea had fully cooled, Noctua silently glided in through the open window, dropped the scroll onto his lap, and flew back out without so much as a hoot. Apparently she, too, was done working for the night.

Draco unfurled the parchment to read it.

...

 _I'll have you know that I finished marking_ three _whole essays._

_And what did you do to Noctua? She was weirdly polite just now._

_I actually wrote to Ginny on Tuesday to warn her I was going to go public soon. She didn't say much, but your intuition was right--she appreciated the heads up. Unfortunately, there's not a whole lot else I can do to protect her. The Weasleys will close rank around her, though. And she weathered the media circus after our divorce was announced. She'll survive._

_I sent a letter to Minerva this evening. She knows about us already thanks to her own powers of deduction and those gossipy portraits. She's ready for the press._

_I hope you don't mind but I took your last reply as permission and told Luna to print the statement._

_For dinner tomorrow I was thinking Sol. They're upscale enough to keep the press at bay and the waitstaff should treat us like any other customers looking to spend an obscene amount of galleons. The dining experience should be up to even_ your _exacting standards. And I can practice with all that fussy silverware before the real test of eating with your mum. (Have I mentioned how much she intimidates me?)_

_I'm going to retire for the night._

_In my big empty bed._

_Sans clothes._

_(The floo is open.)_  

...

 _The addition of private floos in all the staff rooms really is one of the greatest things McGonagall has done in her tenure as Headmistress thus far_ , Draco mused as he stepped, grinning, into the flames.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 400 kudos! You guys are the best!

Harry heard his floo roar to life in the adjacent room. His pulse increased with pleasant anticipation. He hadn't been sure Draco would take him up on his offer. 

He tried to arrange himself into something of a seductive pose but he thought he probably just looked silly with the blankets slung low on his hips and his hands locked behind his head like he had nothing better to do than contemplate the cracks in the ceiling. But from the doorway Draco made an appreciative rumble low in his throat.

Harry glanced up to find a fevered gaze raking over his exposed skin. It felt like a caress and he nearly moaned as goose flesh broke out in its wake.

Draco's expression was feral but he lingered at the threshold of the room. "What happened to being _prudent_ , Harry?"

"Fuck prudence," he growled, sitting up and reaching for the bloody tease (there was no way Draco had made the trip just to throw Harry's words from earlier in his face). "I want you. Now."

Draco's eyelids fluttered shut and he groaned. When he fixed his stare on Harry again, there was no teasing or uncertainty in his eyes. Harry's prick swelled and his heart stuttered with the sudden diversion of blood from its usual course.

Draco crossed the room with ground-eating strides, shedding clothes as he went. Harry braced his palms on the mattress and met Draco's lips in a searing kiss before he'd even made it fully onto the bed. Draco pulled away to kick off his shoes and shrug out of his shirt and Harry quickly tugged him back with a grip on his forearms to shove his tongue into his open mouth. Draco still had his trousers on but they were undone and hung loose, weighed down by his belt. Harry kicked out of the blanket and wrapped his legs around Draco's thighs.

"Salazar!" he mumbled into Harry's mouth, grasping and clutching anywhere his hands could find purchase, "It hasn't been _that_ long."

Harry didn't know which one of them he was chastening. "It feels like it has," he countered anyway.

He broke the kiss to put his mouth on Draco's neck so he could suck a lovebite into the otherwise unblemished skin.

Draco jerked his neck away. "Are you a ruddy  _vampire_?" he hissed, glaring at Harry and rubbing the tender spot.

Harry grinned fiendishly. "Maybe I am." He drew Draco back down for another kiss that was more teeth than lips.

Draco pushed him into the mattress, pinning Harry's hands by his shoulders, and took a turn leaving marks of ownership; though Harry's skin was far from unblemished at the outset.

His scars had been upsetting to Ginny, who didn't want reminders of the dangers of his life, so they had always kept the lights off in the bedroom. Draco, in contrast, didn't seem to mind them and liked having the lights up high.

Harry arched into Draco and gave a noise of frustration at his inability to get any satisfying friction through the barrier of material. He yanked his hands out of Draco's grip so he could push the trousers and pants out of the way (the last time he'd vanished Draco's trousers, the berk had gone into hysterics; Harry would not make that mistake twice). With Draco's prick finally free, Harry took them both in hand and stroked roughly until they were panting in unison.

"Hang on," Draco gasped, stilling Harry who made a petulant face in response. Draco kissed his pout and eased out of his hold. He shimmied between Harry's legs, but Harry squirmed away.

"Just do the spells, Draco," he urged. "I don't want to wait."

Draco frowned up at him, looking far too sexy with his kiss-reddened lips and a loose bit of hair obscuring one eye. "Not on your life," he grated out. He then took on a pedantic tone, "Do you know the reason we don't use magic to prepare potions ingredients, Harry?"

"Ugh. I don't want a _lecture_ ," Harry whined. "I want you to fuck me!"

"Oh, I _will_ ," Draco responded lowly, voice as sweet and dark as treacle. "But I am going to do it right. Now answer the question."

Harry struggled to think through the haze of lust. "Um...because the spell could interfere with the inherent magic of the potion?"

Draco nodded. "That is partially true, yes. But try to think in terms that are relevant to our present circumstances."

Harry goggled. "Are you _serious_ right now? I told you I want you to _fuck me_ and instead you're giving me a potions exam? You're unbelievable."

"I can see you're having trouble so I will elucidate," Draco said patronizingly. Harry's arousal was quickly giving way to irritation. "The primary reason we do not use magic to prepare potions ingredients is _control_ \--most individuals can wield a knife with far greater precision and finesse than a wand. I refuse to use a slipshod spell to do what can be better accomplished with my hands. Besides, I _enjoy_ working you open," he added huskily.

And just like that, Harry's arousal was back in full force. "When you put it that way..." he capitulated.

Draco smirked and flipped his hair out of his face with a negligent toss of his head. "Where do you keep your lubricant?" he asked.

"I just conjure it," Harry replied.

Draco looked pained. "Merlin's lacy undergarments, you are not making this easy."

"False!" Harry snapped, pointing aggressively. He was tired of being sexually frustrated _and_ insulted--one or the other was quite bad enough on its own. " _You're_ the one insisting on doing everything the hard way. Conjuring lube and preparing me with a spell is the quickest, easiest path to all the fucking I wanted to be doing fifteen minutes ago. Not everyone imports their lube from bloody Paris or wherever you get yours."

"I brew my own, actually," Draco replied pompously.

"You brew your own lube," Harry asked without inflection. "Do you have any idea how incredibly poncy that is?"

Draco scowled. "It is the only way to ensure it has the exact consistency, flavor, and aroma I desire," he countered.

Harry couldn't help it--he laughed.

It started out as a snort, but then it grew into a snicker, and from there it devolved into a helpless fit of giggles at the uppity look of disbelief on Draco's face.

Harry rolled, clutching his sides and giggling 'til his cheeks hurt. Because he was in the fetal position, he didn't notice Draco snagging his pillow. He ended up with a face full of cotton and down.

"I've thought of the perfect solution to our dilemma, Harry," Draco said with false levity, "you can go fuck yourself."

Hearing that crass language in Draco's perfect posh accent was enough to cut through Harry's gales of laughter. It also reminded his now-flaccid prick that there was a very attractive, very naked man in his bed.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, sitting up to put his arm around Draco's hunched form. "It's been a weird night and I'm feeling a bit out-of-sorts. But I very much want your prick up my arse and I promise not to make fun of your poncy homemade lube anymore if you'll deign to make do with the conjured stuff tonight."

Draco scoffed. "That was a shite apology; you know that, right?"

Harry snorted. "Yeah, well, I'm hoping the 'prick up my arse' bit will cover over a multitude of sins."

Draco uncrossed his arms. "You're fortunate I find you charming, against my better judgement," he muttered.

"I really am," Harry grinned.

Then he set about trying to give Draco a proper apology with his lips and fingers and tongue.

A long while later, when Draco had finally sheathed himself inside Harry and the act was only accompanied by a moderate amount of discomfort (which was quickly followed by a significant amount of _awesome_ ), Harry acknowledged that Draco had probably been right about the benefits of the hands-on preparation methods. He also learned that 'You were right,' was one of the very best things that could be said to Draco during sex, if his vigorous thrusting and generous kisses were any indication.

The advantage of poncy lube, however, was yet to be determined.


	35. Chapter 35

There was a commotion at breakfast the next morning. Harry tried to slip into his seat at the Head Table without anyone noticing but it was a foregone conclusion; apparently enough students subscribed to the Quibbler for word to have spread already. Realistically, it wouldn't have taken all that many given the nature of the news and the fact it involved not one, but two of their professors.

"Intersting read in the paper this morning," Neville said conversationally when Harry took his seat. He took a sip of steaming black coffee and raised an eyebrow at Harry over the rim of the mug.

"Oh?" Harry piled a plate with a bit of everything from the full English the house-elves had prepared that morning and did his best to ignore the students' pointing and murmuring.

"Indeed. Did you know that the Minister of Finance is suffering from a wrackspurt infestation? Apparently it has led to a number of poor investment decisions."

Harry smiled. "I hadn't heard," he played along. "That's a shame. Someone should let him know that thinking positive thoughts can really help with wrackspurts," he suggested through a mouthful of fried potatoes.

Neville snorted. Before he could reply, the volume in the Great Hall increased to the level of a low roar. Harry looked around and found Draco, as expected. He was impeccably dressed in sharp black robes that made Harry's mouth go dry for the way they accentuated his long, lean frame. He seemed to be channeling Snape, with a haughty sneer and critical eyes, as he stalked to his seat at the other end of the table. He couldn't quite get his robes to billow as impressively, but it was a good show, nevertheless. (Some of the first year students looked downright petrified.)

He spared a glance and the tiniest of smiles for Harry before turning to exchange pleasantries with Fillius and Sinistra.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Minerva spoke over the din, voice amplified by a _sonorous_ , "need I remind you that this is an institution of learning and not a house of gossip?" The room quieted somewhat at her stern tone. "Please direct your attention to your meal and, following that, your studies."

The gossip continued, of course. But it was somewhat subdued, at least.

Neville leaned over to whisper in Harry's ear, "Do you reckon it's a bad sign that he looks like he dressed for a funeral the day you two decided to go public?"

Harry shook his head, amused by the speed with which his friend had dropped the charade; he never could lie for long. (Among other things, that was the reason everyone sent the Longbottoms' surprise party invitations directly to Hannah). "No, those are his 'power robes'," he answered. "He's wearing them to make sure the students pay attention to his lectures today and don't dare ask him any questions about the announcement."

Neville chuckled. "Smart," he opined. He then narrowed his eyes and said, "He looks a bit like Snape, though. It's unnerving." Harry stifled a laugh. "That was a nice press release, by the way," Neville commented sincerely between bites of toast.

Harry grinned. "Thanks, Nev."

...

By the end of his second class, Harry wished he had invested in a set of power robes, himself.

He'd planned to conduct his classes as usual, making no mention of Luna's article, but he quickly learned that was not going to fly. The students were woefully distracted and the boldest among them kept blurting out cheeky questions that caused everyone else to burst into fits of laughter.

In desperation and for want of a better idea, Harry told the nosy buggers they could each ask one question--provided that it was age and school appropriate--that he would answer in order to put their tongue-wagging to rest. He made it clear that he expected them to behave themselves afterwards, however.

While he wasn't thrilled to tell a bunch of fourth years that Draco's eyes were his favorite feature (which wasn't exactly true, but it was the most honest answer he could give to students), the solution seemed to work well enough. Except for the fact it took up more than half the class period.

Thank Merlin he'd made the announcement on a Friday rather than earlier in the week. It might have been wiser still to wait until the winter hols, but that realization was a day late and a sickle short.

At least with the students' curiosity sated he was able to salvage some of the class time.

...

Draco stepped gracefully out of Harry's fireplace that evening as if he had done it a hundred times before (whereas Harry tended to trip and stumble no matter how familiar he was with any given floo).

"Rough day?" he asked solicitously after giving Harry a once over.

"What gave it away?" Harry grumbled, yanking his tie off to see if the _fourth_ try was a charm when it came to getting the bloody thing on straight.

Draco withdrew the uncooperative accessory from his hands. "Allow me," he said, looping it around Harry's neck. In a matter of moments, his nimble fingers had tied a perfect Windsor knot. He straightened Harry's collar, patted his cheek, and stepped back to survey the effect.

"Not bad," he proclaimed, nodding his approval. Harry flushed, feeling pleased and bashful both. "But what made you decide upon a Muggle suit? It will earn you some critical glances at the restaurant." (Draco had swapped his black robes out for a more formal turquoise set; he looked fantastic as ever.)

Harry curled his lip in distaste. "I couldn't care less about those stuffy old codgers and their vapid escorts. If _you_ think I look good, that's all I care about."

Draco smiled without showing his teeth. Harry could tell it was because he was trying to keep from grinning broadly. "If that's so," he bargained, "let me see what I can do with that ridiculous hair of yours."

"Good luck," Harry scoffed. "It defies magic and physics alike."

Draco chuckled, so softly he made almost no sound but Harry delighted in it, nevertheless.

Then his expression turned critical. He narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips, and tilted his head slowly from side to side, appraising the unruly mop. Next, he circled around Harry as if deciding the best angle from which to attack. Finally he set to with his hands, several nonverbal spells, and a number of tsks and muttered swears.

Harry nervously shuffled from foot to foot until Draco told him to 'stop at that infernal fidgeting.'

"Having someone point his wand at your head is nerve-racking," he said defensively, "even if that someone is your boyfriend."

Draco froze. Harry realized why a second later. His palms began to tingle and his cheeks heated while he waited for a response. Draco graced him with an immensely satisfied expression, quicksilver eyes sparkling, then went back to whatever voodoo he was casting on his hair.

Harry sighed in relief.

The relief was short-lived, however, thanks to Draco's rough handling of his head, which kept causing Harry to flinch and cringe (which, in turn, had Draco repeatedly telling him such nice things as 'suck it up' and 'stop acting like a baby').

"Done," the blond devil announced, minutes later. He moved away so Harry could see the result of his efforts in the mirror hanging by the front door.

Harry's first (disappointing) impression was that his hair still looked messy. But upon closer inspection, he realized that it somehow appeared artfully so, like the chaos was intentional. It worked surprisingly well.

He caught Draco's eye in the reflection and grinned. "You're a miracle worker," he flattered.

Draco smirked. "Small miracles, on occasion." He reached his hand out to Harry who turned and took it gladly. "Let's not be late to our own coming out party," he admonished playfully. 

"Perish the thought," Harry replied, tugging Draco to the hearth. He tossed a generous pinch of floo powder into the flames and made sure to enunciate clearly, _Diagon Alley_. He took one last look at Draco, squeezed his hand for courage, and stepped into the swirling vortex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter might be slightly delayed by the necessity of doing grown-up things, like my job. Lame.


	36. Chapter 36

Harry didn't let Draco release his hold when they departed the public floo at Diagon. Draco cocked a brow at him, but didn't fight it. He did, however, look like he was steeling himself for battle--scanning the witches and wizards on the street and assessing the relative threat-level of each, shoulders tense and wand hand at the ready. If Harry didn't know better, he would think that out of the two of them, Draco was the one with Auror training.

"Is Diagon always this stressful for you or is it because of _this_?" Harry asked quietly, indicating their joined hands.

"A bit of both," Draco answered soberly. "The last time I was here I was hit with a tripping jinx and had refuse thrown at me."

Harry's expression darkened. "How long ago?" he ground out, sincerely hoping the answer was _years_ \--Draco had done his time for the choices he made when he had been a scared fucking **kid**.

"September."

Harry's vision went white momentarily as he burned with rage. His magic snapped and crackled at is fingertips, begging to be unleashed. He almost wanted one of the anonymous passersby who glanced their way to make a move towards Draco so he could have an outlet for the tongues of fury that lapped at his heels.

"Fucking two months ago?!" he snarled.

Draco's eyes widened and his breathing hitched. He looked down at their hands where arcs magic like static shocks leapt off Harry's skin and danced up Draco's fingers before fizzling out. When he returned his gaze to Harry, his eyes were heavy-lidded and a pink flush had bloomed on his cheeks.

" _Harry_ ," he said throatily, placing his free hand on Harry's chest, "while your protective instinct is fantastically sexy and a fair portion of me wants to drag you into a back alley right now to have my way with you--" he trailed off and hummed a bit, a dreamy expression on his face.

He cleared his throat, returning to the present. "Please remember," he continued, "that we are expecting reporters at any moment. You must be mindful of all that you say and do while we are in public, for your every word and deed will be subject to scrutiny." He grinned lewdly, "But if you wanted to bring any of _this_ with us into the privacy of your bedroom tonight, I wouldn't complain."

Harry deflated somewhat. "How can you be so cavalier about it?" he asked sullenly, steering them towards the restaurant because they were beginning to draw curious looks just standing on the street corner like that.

"Because this is the way it has been for some time," Draco said pragmatically. "And it's not entirely unjustified," he added, expression grim.

"But it _is_!" Harry insisted, hands clenching into fists. At Draco's quelling look he uncurled his fingers and continued in a more even, if still firm, tone, "The war was six years ago. As far as I know (and believe me, I checked the Auror reports) you haven't so much as _littered_ since then. You served your sentence and paid your fines and you've kept your nose clean and been a good and productive member of society ever since--what more could they want from you?"

Draco gazed at him with mournful eyes. "Some of them want me dead, Harry," he said softly, sensibly. Harry's heart twisted. "They want their children back; their spouses, siblings, parents. But they can't get what they want and so they are willing to settle for vengeance instead. I don't begrudge them the sentiment. I am familiar with it, after all," he gave a sad, self-deprecating smile.

A lump formed in Harry's throat as Draco's words washed over him and stirred the ocean of grief he carried with him always. "I lost more than most," he spoke roughly. "But vengeance isn't the answer. It can't take the hurt away. It just scabs over it with bitterness and hatred."

Draco's smile turned wry. "Some might consider a scab preferable to a gaping wound," he replied.

Harry was going to argue further but Draco shushed him. "I'm not saying they're right. Just that I understand. But that understanding won't stop me from defending myself when my safety is threatened."

Apparently those were the words Harry needed to hear. He was still heartsore, but he thought he could let the conversation go and try to be better company. "It won't stop _me_ from defending you either," he stated definitively.

Draco grinned, sharp canines glinting in the lamplight. "Of course not, my noble Gryffindor." Harry couldn't decide if the statement was meant to be condescending or fond.

Probably both.

They walked in silence the short distance to the restaurant's entrance, bumping shoulders occasionally, clasped hands swaying between them. Several darting glances and a few open stares tracked their progress, but everyone seemed content to gawk from a respectable distance. For now.

Harry expected a mob to form before their meal was through. The evening edition of the Prophet had been none too kind. ('HARRY POTTER GAY SCANDAL! And his paramour is a notorious _Death Eater_!' 'The-Boy-Who-Lived says he isn't ashamed of his new lover, but should he be?' 'HOGWARTS: A DEN OF DEBAUCHERY! How can we be sure students are protected from the corrupting influence of two men so willing to flout conventional social mores? Are _your_ children at risk?') Harry had been so mad he'd accidentally burnt Neville's copy to ash. (" _That's_ why I didn't want to show you, mate," he'd huffed. "It's all a load of bollocks anyway.")

Harry forcibly unclenched his jaw and breathed deeply through his nose in an attempt to dispel the dark thoughts. He was on his first real date with his _boyfriend_ and he was going to enjoy it, dammit.

A young wizard (barely out of Hogwarts, Harry thought, judging from the spots that dotted his face and the wispy almost-mustache clinging to his upper lip) bowed to them both and opened Sol's heavy golden doors, ushering them inside. Draco removed his hand from Harry's grip and placed it on the small of his back to lead him through the portal.

"Monsieur Potter. Monsieur Malfoy," the maître d' greeted from his gilded podium in what Harry was pretty sure was a fake French accent. "We are honored to have you dining with us this evening. Please allow me to show you to your table."

His ostentatious robes swished heavily as he wound through tables occupied by patrons who all looked the same--robes that cost more than Harry's yearly salary, dripping with precious stones and gleaming metals, absurd hairstyles, and fixed sneers. Draco had been right that Harry would be out of place in his suit; he'd only ever been there for lunch before and the dress code was less formal then, apparently. But he'd resigned himself to wearing his best robes to the Manor tomorrow and he couldn't very well wear them two days in a row. So the rich snobs with their critical glances and nasty smirks could sod off on a splintery broom.

Everything in the restaurant was gold, from the wall panels to the flatware, the glittering chandeliers and the waitstaff's uniforms. And everything was stamped with their trademark sunburst motif. Harry thought the effect was gaudy, and frankly, he hated the place, but because the restaurant served an exclusive clientele they didn't treat him like a celebrity.

 _Mostly, anyway_ , he thought as the maître d' peered at him from the corner of his eye.

They were led to an opulent private room at the back of the house with a single table set up inside. From the way Draco's eyes lit up, Harry knew he was pleased.

"Your server will be right with you," the maître d' informed them after they had been seated. "I sincerely hope everything is to your liking. Please do not hesitate to let me know if anything is amiss," he said before scuttling out and closing the door behind him.

The evening would put a significant dent in Harry's Gringotts vault, but it was worth it for the way Draco smiled as he took in their surroundings. Harry's heart fluttered when that silver gaze landed on him and the smile widened.

Harry decided on the spot silver was a much prettier color than gold and that he hadn't been this happy in a very long time.

Their waiter entered then. Philippe was his name (supposedly). He made a few wine suggestions and Harry deferred to Draco's superior knowledge for their order.

"Have you been here before?" Draco inquired when the waiter left to fetch the wine.

Harry moved the rather large arrangement of golden flowers to the edge of the table so they could see each other better. "A few times with Kingsley," he answered.

Draco's eyebrow quirked. "Is dining with the Minister of Magic a regular occurrence for you?"

"Not since he became Minister. But he was just the Head of the DMLE when I was an Auror and we had lunch here on occasion."

Draco snorted without actually making sound (that would be too crass). " _Just_ ," he parroted.

Harry bristled. He felt like he was being made fun of but he didn't understand what for. "Kingsley and I have been friends for years," he said. "Plus he was grooming me to take over the Auror department. The conversations we had about that needed to be private."

Draco shook his head in dismay. "A tremendous opportunity you just walked away from." Harry thought he picked up a trace of scorn.

"It worked out rather well for _you_ , didn't it?" he snapped, folding his arms across his chest.

Draco's mouth thinned in disapproval (and maybe hurt). "You, as well, I thought."

Godrick, they were _fighting_ and Harry didn't even know why! It was maddening.

"Yes, Draco!" he shouted in exasperation. "Quitting the Aurors was one of the best things I've ever done, not the least of which because it brought me to you." He took on a note of pleading and uncrossed his arms, not wanting to appear closed off, "Where is this attitude coming from all of a sudden?"

Draco sighed, expression gentling. He reached across the table to twine his fingers with Harry's. "I think I'm on edge because of what I expect to be awaiting us when our meal is done," he admitted.

Harry rubbed his thumb across Draco's knuckles. "Well that makes two of us," he said. "But can we at least _try_ to have a nice dinner?" He smiled hopefully.

"Yes, let's," Draco replied with an answering smile. Philippe entered then with their wine, making Harry wonder if he had been waiting politely outside for their disagreement to resolve. His estimation of the waiter increased marginally. Draco released his hand with a squeeze and returned his to his lap.

"Do you know what you want?" he asked as a generous amount of ruby wine was poured into their glasses. Harry thought it would be unwise to have more than one.

"I like the fillet," Harry answered. Draco nodded and ordered salmon for himself. Philippe bobbed his head and left to inform the kitchen.

Draco slowly swirled the liquid in his glass, watching the way it clung and dripped. He took a sniff and then a sip, swishing the wine in his mouth. Harry didn't pretend to understand the ritual, but he liked watching Draco go through the motions all the same.

"It's a bit dry," Draco proclaimed, "but the bouquet is nice. What do you think?" he asked, nodding towards Harry's yet-to-be-touched glass.

Harry took a drink like a normal person, without all the pomp and circumstance. "It tastes like wine," he reported, thinking that might earn a chuckle from Draco. (He was right.)

"You are such a Philistine," Draco mocked, but he was smiling.

"Joke's on you," Harry retorted, "I don't even know what that means."

Draco laughed, soft and rich and mellow, eyes crinkling at the corners.

It was far better than the wine, and more intoxicating, too.

Harry took another sip to steady himself (which probably wasn't the smartest plan, in retrospect.) "How did the power robes work out for you?" he asked.

"Like a charm," Draco answered smugly. "It didn't hurt that when I caught some of my Slytherin fifth years sniggering over a copy of the Quibbler instead of attending to their Strengthening Solution, I made them tear the paper up and add it to the cauldron, ruining the potion and resulting in Trolls on the assignment."

Harry sucked in a breath and cringed in sympathy. "That's cruel," he said, shaking his head, but reluctantly impressed. "I didn't know anyone even gave out Trolls. Isn't Dreadful bad enough?"

"Not if one is trying to teach a lesson about respect and the importance of heeding a professor's warnings," Draco replied as though it was obvious.

"That's fair, I s'pose. Still, you and Snape make it seem like 'scary' is a requirement for the Potions position."

Draco smirked, looking pleased. "If my students are half as frightened of me as you lot were of Severus, I will consider my teaching career a success."

"You're barmy," Harry said, shaking his head and grinning all the while. Draco shrugged and somehow made even that gesture seem refined.

The rest of their dinner passed by in a pleasant blur. Harry was so focused on Draco--poised, at ease, and so bloody handsome--he barely even tasted his meal after it arrived. They talked a bit of strategy for the next day's dinner and dealing with the press that evening but the conversation flowed on to happier topics as the wine began to affect them both.

Harry declined a second glass when Philippe offered, but Draco indulged.

He nearly choked on his steak when Draco's stockinged foot crept up his inseam. Draco smirked briefly but kept right on talking as if his ridiculously dexterous toes weren't making it difficult for Harry to see straight, let alone carry on conversation. Harry removed the questing extremity before he embarrassed himself.

They shared a dessert of poached apples in rum sauce with a crumble topping and weird flecks of gold the waiter assured Harry were perfectly edible.

Harry's prick, which had never fully settled after its close encounter with Draco's foot, took a keen interest in his pornographic moans of delight at his first mouthful of apple. Harry's own bite never actually made it to his mouth--he was so transfixed by the sight (and sounds) of Draco eating something that pleased him greatly, his golden spoon just hung limply in his hand while he gaped.

Draco locked eyes with him and took another deliberately obscene bite. He slowly licked the glistening sauce off his spoon and smirked at Harry's tortured groan. "I was under the impression we were going to share the dessert, Harry," he teased huskily.

"I'm enjoying myself just fine," Harry answered, voice cracking embarrassingly. Draco grinned and returned to fellating his flatware. "You do realize you're making it so I might have to face the press while trying to hide a raging hard-on, though, right?"

Draco's laugh was deep and breathy and went straight to Harry's groin. " _Merlin_ ," Harry rasped, pressing the heel of his palm against said hard-on.

Draco's eyes snapped to his lap as if he could see what Harry was doing through the table. "None of that," he reprimanded. "That's all for me," he added, expression wolfish.

"Do we _have_ to talk to the reporters?" Harry whined.

"This was _your_ idea, dearest," Draco reminded him smugly, taking way too much satisfaction in Harry's torment.

"Ugh."

Philippe arrived with the bill while Harry was weighing the merits of knocking their table settings to the ground and ravishing Draco on top of the golden tablecloth, with a disturbing sense of déjà vu. 

Counting out an unholy number of galleons (including a generous tip that Harry hoped would buy Philippe's silence when reporters asked him for details of the dinner) proved to be a helpful diversion. By the time Draco and Harry stood at the front entrance, Harry was no longer plagued by his formerly-insistent erection.

The maître d' warned them that the crowd outside was both large and vocal. He graciously offered the use of Sol's private floo, which was typically reserved for management and people like the Minister, but Harry declined. They were going to have to face the press sooner or later, and he'd rather just get it over with.

"Ready?" he asked Draco.

Draco firmed his spine, nodded, and opened the door for the both of them.

Harry was immediately taken aback by the sheer volume of questions that were hurled at them before they'd even stepped fully out of the building.

"Promise not to hex me?" he whispered in Draco's ear.

"What? Why?" Draco asked warily, easing away from Harry.

Instead of answering, Harry pulled him in for a kiss. The explosion of flashbulbs was blinding. Draco pinched him where the cameras couldn't see and Harry laughed against his mouth.

' _Mr Potter, is it true you are in a homosexual relationship with Draco Malfoy?_ '

"Are you dense?" Harry scoffed, turning to face the moron. "I literally just kissed him in front of you and I made an official statement in Wizarding Britain's most trustworthy newspaper saying so this very morning," Harry answered as though bored (he'd learned better than to show weakness in front of any of these jackals). He saw Draco smother a laugh in his periphery and was encouraged by it.

Draco stood abreast of him, hands folded behind his back and face impassive. He looked amazing and Harry tried to mimic his calm, authoritative stance. 

' _Mr Potter, do you think carrying on with a convicted Death Eater sends the right kind of message to the students you teach at Hogwarts_?'

Harry bit back his first response ('Do _you_ think asking asinine questions qualifies you as a journalist?'). "Absolutely," he answered firmly. "The message it sends is one of forgiveness and reconciliation, which, you may remember, has been my M.O. since ending the war against Voldemort a few years back. I hope to teach my students the value of tolerance to counteract the closed-minded bigotry they will experience from others in the Wizarding world." The reporter wilted under his pointed glare.

' _What does your fiancé have to say about this, Mr Malfoy?_ '

Harry whipped his head around to stare at Draco, who'd gone whey-faced.

"No comment," he said tightly, and took Harry's elbow to lead him through the throng, but Harry turned on the spot and apparated them both away.

Betrayal, hurt, and fury churned his stomach violently and his magic threatened to go wild.

It wasn't safe to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhangers are a bitch. (Don't hate me!)


	37. Chapter 37

Draco came out of the apparation's spin in a darkened building. Harry lurched away as soon as his feet were under him. He flicked a careless hand and the lights came on, illuminating a room Draco had never seen before.

"Sit," Harry ordered, pointing sharply at an unremarkable couch. " _Stay_ ," he added, voice a savage growl.

Draco wanted to protest being spoken to like a bloody crup, but he deemed it ill-advised. He'd never seen Harry this angry, not even during their school days. Magic was pouring off of him in waves that made the air reek of ozone and Draco's neck- and arm-hair stand on end.

He obeyed.

Harry stormed out of the room and stomped up a set of stairs. Draco heard a series of crashes and bangs that made him start, heart hammering.

He glanced around the room, trying to determine their location. It seemed to be a house, but not one that had been recently lived-in based on the thick layer of dust that coated every surface and the musty quality to the air. Maybe a Ministry safe house, then.

Draco entertained a passing regret over seating himself before applying a cleaning charm (or maybe even an _impervious_ ) to protect his robes, but it was quickly swallowed up by the overwhelming anxiety that had his pulse racing and his breath coming in shallow pants.

 _This is not good. Quite awful, actually._ _Really_ _fucking terrible._

He put a harsh stop to his frantic thoughts when he realized they were spiraling out of control and practiced his calming techniques (deep breathing, progressive muscle relaxation, soothing visualization) instead.

Harry apparently did likewise (destroying an unseen room and the entirety of its contents, by the sound of it).

Approximately five minutes later, he heard Harry's heavy footfalls on the stairs. Draco gulped nervously.

Harry entered the room but remained on the far side. Every line of his body looked strained and his glower could have stripped paint from the walls, but his magic seemed to be contained, at least.

"Is there something you forgot to tell me, Draco?" he asked in a low, measured tone that spoke of barely-repressed fury. Draco could see the muscles working in his tightly clenched jaw.

"Will you please sit?" he entreated, feeling truly afraid of Harry for the first time.

Having experienced his magic firsthand, Draco knew Harry could overpower him easily. But that fear paled in comparison to the creeping dread that this was the end of the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Harry jerked his head in a curt refusal, green eyes spiteful and luminous as an A.K.

Draco sighed, nearly a whine. "You have to know I didn't mean for this to happen," he pleaded.

Harry sneered without humour, "Of that I am _quite_ sure."

 _Shit. He isn't going to make this easy on me._  

"Fiancé isn't the proper term to apply to Astoria," Draco began. Harry seethed at the mere mention of her name so he hurried on. "Our parents arranged a betrothal contract without my knowledge and against my will. You can't possibly think that is the same thing as me proposing to the woman," he reasoned.

A ghost of doubt passed over Harry's features and Draco pressed his advantage. "I have made it abundantly clear to Astoria and Mother both that I will not be fulfilling the contract. And for the record, that was my position even before you came along."

Harry's expression wavered. He looked as though he wanted to accept Draco's explanation fully and let that be the end of it, but his Gryffindor self-righteousness demanded satisfaction.

"What, specifically, does a betrothal contract entail and why didn't you tell me about it sooner?" he interrogated.

"I didn't tell you about it because I mistakenly assumed it would be a non-issue--I have been trying to convince Astoria to break the contract for months." Draco caught himself attempting to minimize his culpability and put paid to that notion. "But that is not a good enough excuse," he said with conviction. "You got hurt because of my lie of omission and that is the last thing I want to happen. I am deeply, truly sorry."

Harry frowned. "Are there any other 'non-issues' you should tell me about? 'Cause I really don't want to go through this again. It fucking sucks, Draco."

Draco's stomach clenched as though he'd been punched. The feeling, however, was guilt. "I know, Harry," he said softly. "I promise I will do my best to prevent something like this from happening in the future. I don't think there are any other noteworthy skeletons in my closet...but then, I haven't been in the closet in a while," he joked weakly. 

Harry's lips twitched but he forced them back into a stern line. "Were you and Astoria ever romantically involved? Whose idea was the contract in the first place?"

"No, never," Draco answered truthfully. "And it was the exclusive vision of our parents, at least until Astoria found out about it. She is strangely attached to the idea. But I will deal with that, I swear it."

"So what is this contract then--is it something you can just break or buy your way out of?"

"It is like any business arrangement," Draco explained, steadied somewhat by Harry's willingness to hear him out. "The relevant parties negotiate terms, come to an agreement, and sign a magically binding agreement--in this case, that Astoria and I would be wed by her twenty-third birthday. The Greengrasses would receive a hefty injection of wealth from the Malfoy coffers and I, in turn, would gain a respectable pureblood wife who can provide me with an heir. (Never mind the fact I don't _want_ a respectable pureblood wife.)"

Harry shook his head, baffled. "But aren't you a 'relevant party' in those negotiations? It seems like your opinion on the matter should carry substantial weight."

Draco gave a faint smile at his precious naïveté. "Most purebloods would consider that a quaint notion," he answered. "Pureblood marriages are not formed on the basis of love or even an individual's wants; they are established in the best interest of the respective family lines."

Harry grimaced.

"It offends your romantic sensibilities, I know," Draco acknowledged with only the hint of a smirk, "but the practice has served pureblood society well for many generations. I probably would have been a dutiful son and gone through with such an arrangement if I hadn't been so disillusioned by my father's actions during the war."

Harry looked horrified. "Even though you're not attracted to women?"

Draco felt safe enough now to tease. " _Do_ keep up, Harry," he chided, eyes smiling. "The marriage wouldn't be about desire (and plenty of arranged marriages between heterosexual partners lack mutual attraction). It would be for the express purpose of strengthening the family name and begetting an heir. The hope would be to develop an amicable partnership and maybe even a friendship over time, but that is hardly a requirement."

"I hate that," Harry uttered guilelessly.

"I'm sure you do," Draco responded with a wry quirk to his lips. "It sounds an awful lot like your disastrous marriage, doesn't it? Doing something you don't want in order to satisfy others' expectations."

Harry's eyes widened fractionally. "I hadn't put that together, but yeah." He leaned a shoulder against the wall he'd been standing rigidly in front of and crossed his arms loosely, gaze thoughtful.

Draco nodded, pleased with his relaxed posture. "Well anyway, it's not going to happen," he asserted. "No matter what becomes of _us_ , I am not fulfilling that particular obligation. I have already paid too dear a price for submitting to my family's desires. I haven't exhausted all of my options yet because I was trying to preserve Astoria's dignity, but if she forces my hand I will not hesitate to use every means at my disposal to nullify the contract."

Harry tensed anew. "You won't hurt her, I trust?" It had the inflection of a question but Draco new command when he heard one. 

"Not if I can help it. We may come to a place where I have no choice, however."

Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Nothing's ever easy with you, is it?" he asked with a half smile.

Draco smirked. "It you wanted _easy_ , Harry, you wouldn't have gone after _me_."

The other half of Harry's smile appeared. "No, I dont suppose I would have." He pushed off the wall. "Mind if I sit down," he asked sheepishly, gesturing with his chin to the space next to Draco.

Relief like champaign bubbled through Draco's system, making his limbs feel oddly light. "I would like that," he answered softly.

Harry shuffled over and dropped with a _wumph_ onto the couch. "'M sorry I overreacted," he mumbled, gaze fixed on his hands. "I should've known better than to listen to a bloody _reporter_ without giving you a chance to explain." He picked anxiously at his nails until Draco covered his hands with one of his own.

"I don't think you overreacted," he replied. Harry turned disbelieving eyes on him. "You had every right to your anger," Draco elaborated. "You thought I had lied to and betrayed you, and that fact came out in public, adding humiliation to the original injury."

"Anger is one thing," Harry countered, expression rueful. "I almost leveled a city-block,"

Draco shivered, spine tingling, and caressed the back of Harry's hands with his fingertips. "I noticed," he murmured.

"Merlin, I must have terrified you," Harry blurted, turning suddenly to face Draco, eyes worried and tone apologetic.

"Only for a minute," Draco flippantly dismissed Harry's concern. "Besides," he added with a grinning leer, "you know what your wanton displays of power do to me."

Harry snorted and turned his palm to interlace their fingers. "You're incorrigible."

"True," Draco affirmed unabashedly, and then thought that was probably the result of too much time spent with Blaise. After a beat, he gave voice to a question that had nagged at him for days, "But tell me, how is it that you've managed to conceal all that power from the public? Surely it must have been displayed during your time with the Aurors, but I've heard no mention of it in the papers or even credible rumors."

Harry gave a sly smile. "It bothers you when you don't know something, doesn't it?"

"Terribly," Draco answered with full sincerity.

Harry chuckled and Draco's insides fluttered in response (like a sodding schoolgirl).

"I usually keep it locked down pretty tightly," Harry said without pretense. "My control was shot today because of the stress of the morning and my nervousness about the evening and all the little things that chipped away at it along the way. And you tend to have a strong effect on me," Harry looked sweetly embarrassed to Draco's great delight, "you always have."

His expression clouded. "I only ever lost control once in the field." He exhaled slowly. Draco was riveted. "I was part of a raid that went badly. Our informant failed to mention that the warehouse was trapped to high heaven. I got caught by a wall with a modified _incarcerous_ rune--the ropes wrenched my shoulder out of joint and held me so tightly I couldn't breathe--and Ron ended up in a duel with one of the smugglers.

"An explosion on the other side of the building ( _confringo_ , maybe) took out Johnson and McGregor, the other Aurors who were with us, and then Ron went down to a _Crucio_ and I lost it. I tore the whole damn wall down ripping free of the ropes and things went sort of fuzzy after that."

Harry looked guilt-stricken, but he concluded, "Whatever it was I did, the two smugglers didn't survive. Ron already knew the extent of my power--and wouldn't have told anyone even if he didn't--and everyone else was dead, so..."

He cleared his throat. "There was an official inquiry, of course, but no one could say definitively what had happened. Kingsley had the record sealed after the case was closed. I've worked hard to make sure something like that never happens again. But it was too close for comfort this evening."

It was obvious what a painful memory that was for Harry. Draco was touched he'd once again trusted him with such an admission.

"I don't think less of you for it," he replied earnestly, slouching down into the cushions of the couch so he could rest his head on Harry's shoulder.

Harry put his arm around Draco's waist and kissed the top of his head. "You're pretty great," he said, voice rough.

"Yeah, I am," Draco agreed on a self-satisfied sigh. His head was jostled by the rise and fall of Harry's shoulder with his laughter.

"Where _are_ we, by the way?" he asked. 

Harry paused. "My house," he said, tone guarded.

" _Really_?" Draco sat bolt upright; he was suddenly much more interested in their surroundings.

"Yeah, but it's not fit for company at the moment," Harry said, leaning into Draco's line-of-sight, "so quit snooping."

"I wasn't!" Draco protested. (He was.)

Harry rolled his eyes, lips quirked in an almost-smile. "Right. Let's get back to Hogwarts--it's been a long night." He stood with a creaking of joints much too loud for someone his age and offered Draco a hand up.

"Is the night over?" Draco asked coyly, a great deal of hope riding on Harry's answer. He took the proffered hand and pulled himself up until they stood chest-to-chest.

Harry's pupils dilated and he grasped Draco's hip with his free hand. "It doesn't have to be," he breathed.

Heart soaring on wings of triumph, Draco leaned in for a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did that resolve too quickly? Pacing is hard :/ And I didn't want to leave you lovelies hanging.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were some substantial revisions to the last chapter several hours after it was posted, in case you missed it.

"Are you awake?" Harry whispered, carding his fingers through Draco's hair.

"I can't very well sleep if you keep talking," Draco complained, resettling himself in the crook of Harry's muscular arm with a huff.

Harry chuckled. "Only _you_ could be this cranky after sex," he muttered.

"I maintain that any reasonable person would complain about being kept awake at this hour."

" _At this hour_?" Harry repeated, incredulous. "It's not even midnight! You sound like a grumpy old man."

"I need my beauty rest," Draco contended with perfect dignity.

"I stand corrected: a grumpy old _ponce_."

Draco swatted Harry on the flank. "Either say what you wanted to say or shut up and go to sleep," he grumbled. "I tire of your prattle."

Harry laughed but his fingers stilled. He was fretting. "The papers are going to be bad tomorrow, aren't they?"

"Oh, most assuredly dreadful," Draco answered, imagining the front page spread he knew would include a picture of Harry snogging him (he should've hexed the idiot for that stunt) and another of the moment that hack journalist from the Prophet had nearly ruined everything.

"Godrick, I well and truly buggered it all up," Harry despaired. 

"You did no such thing," Draco repudiated his martyr's claim. "We already established I'm to blame for this imbroglio. I will compose an official statement of my own for Lovegood tomorrow, assuming she'll print it. The morning editions won't be particularly flattering, but they weren't going to be anyway. There's no sense in worrying over them now."

"Giving a statement is probably a good idea..." Harry sighed heavily, "I just really wanted to avoid getting caught up in all this again."

Draco levered himself up so he could peer down at Harry, "You will always be newsworthy, Harry--especially when you insist on doing unpopular things like slumming with ex-Death Eaters. You need to develop thicker skin," he pinched Harry's side to illustrate his point and Harry scowled at him.  

"So there's going to be bad press," he continued, " _so what_? Your friends will stand by you, McGonagall will not forsake you, your students love you, and it would take an act of God to pry me away, so you're fine. Nothing to worry about. Now go to sleep."

Harry's expression melted into a soppy grin. "When did you become so wise?" he asked facetiously.

"A superior intellect is one of the many benefits of good sleep habits," Draco retorted with a straight face.

Harry laughed and tumbled Draco back down into the mattress. He would have grumbled about it, but he was quickly wrapped in a deliciously warm and comfortable snuggle and his eyelids became leaden with drowsiness. He nuzzled into the hair at Harry's nape and filled his nostrils with the musky, earthy scent that was all him. 

He was drifting in and out of consciousness when a quiet, " _Draco_?" pulled him back to full alertness. "Salazar's saggy sac!" he exclaimed. "What is it now?"

"I'm still scared shitless about dinner with your mum," Harry said. 

"Well you should be," Draco snapped, "she's a terrifying woman. And you'll survive," he offered as grudging reassurance. "You always do."

"That was much less comforting than your last answer," Harry critiqued drily.

"Wake me up again and you'll see how uncomfortable I can make you," Draco warned lowly. (He wasn't sure the threat was entirely coherent, but it seemed to get his point across anyway.)

Harry snorted. "Tetchy."

"So help me, Potter..."

"All right, no need to draw your wand! I'm sleeping now. No more interruptions. Zipping it. Total silence."

Draco glared at Harry until the git shut his trap, closed his eyes, and feigned sleep. Only then did he return his head to the pillow of Harry's arm and draw his knees up to curl against Harry's side.

His breathing slowed and evened as he relaxed into slumber's embrace.  

"Goodnight, Draco," Harry whispered, smirking impishly.

Draco shoved him out of the bed. 


	39. Chapter 39

When Noctua arrived the next morning with Draco's copy of the Prophet, Harry said that was his cue to leave bed and start getting ready for the day. He declared it would be better for all involved if he didn't read the paper himself and asked Draco filter the most pertinent details for him. (He also said that he wasn't going to spend any longer than was strictly necessary with 'that ill-tempered bird' and Draco cast a mild stinging hex at his arse for the remark.)

Harry was toweling off from his shower and Draco frowning at the newspaper when a molting ball of grey fluff barreled in through the open window and crash landed on Harry's nightstand, knocking several items to the ground. Noctua swiveled her head almost all the way around to glare at the disgraceful creature.

Draco spied a distinctive red envelope clutched in its withered talons and called into the bathroom, "Harry, there appears to be the desiccated corpse of an owl here with a Howler for you."

"Shit! That's Errol! He's the Weasleys'--"

Whatever else he had been about to say was cut off by the explosion of sound out of the smoking, shaking, shrieking envelope.

"What the actual _FUCK_ , Harry?!" came a shrill woman's voice. Harry bolted into the bedroom, still dripping and clutching a towel about his waist. "When you told me you were going to come out, you failed to mention that you were **fucking** Draco sodding _Malfoy_! Have you forgotten that his father nearly killed me with that bloody diary?! And what about _Fred_? His  murder must have just slipped your mind while Malfoy was down on his hands and knees for you," she sneered in disgust. "Fucking _hell_!"

At first Harry had looked equal parts horrified and dismayed, but each new invective made him cringe a bit more and he turned wide, apologetic eyes to Draco (who was working very hard to find the humour in the situation).

"You'd better not bring that fucking Death Eater to Christmas," the Weasette barked. "In fact, I think it would be best if you didn't come at all. _Argh!_ I can't believe you would do this to us! You are such a fucking selfish **PRICK**!"

With a final shuddering, whirling hoorah, the Howler exploded in a shower of sparks. Meanwhile, the Weasleys' ancient owl recovered enough to flap clumsily away, overturning a lamp on its way out.

"Charming," Draco intoned.

"Merlin! Draco, I am so, so sorry you had to hear that," Harry dashed to stand in front of him and hovered his hands around Draco's face and shoulders like he didn't know what to do with them. "The wards are set to keep Howlers out but they let Errol through because they recognized him. She had _no right_ to say those things--"

"She does," Draco interrupted, striving for calm. "They were unkind, but no less true for it--after a fashion, anyway. I don't suspect she was pleased to learn about us from the papers." Harry ducked his head. "I thought you _told her_ ," Draco said accusingly.

Harry wore a hangdog expression. "I warned her I was planning on coming out...but I didn't tell her that you and I were dating," he admitted, dropping his hands to his sides. "I knew she wouldn't like it and I didn't want to have to listen to her say shite like that and I didn't think it was her business, anyway," he said in a rush.

"You miscalculated," Draco responded acerbically. He could not fathom how Harry had believed his ex-wife would react any differently.

"Yeah. I did," Harry agreed, face downcast and shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry." He looked up at Draco then, jaw set and impossibly green eyes shining with resolve. "I'll deal with this," he said firmly. "Do you mind if I go make a floo call?"

"Not if you put some clothes on first," Draco responded, directing a meaningful gaze at Harry's mostly-nude frame.

Harry looked down at himself and blushed. "Right," he said and went to the closet to pull out a worn pair of denims and a faded green t-shirt. He dropped the towel to the ground with a damp plop and pulled the trousers on without bothering with pants.

Draco stared shamelessly, enjoying the view in spite of his irritation. He was curious to see what Harry intended to do and it was hard to stay mad at the dolt when he was being so earnest (and looking so fantastic, even in tatty Muggle clothes).

Harry strode out of the room, inclining his head to indicate Draco should follow. Upon reaching the hearth, Harry took a pinch of floo powder from the mishapen dish that seemed to have been made by whatever child or children had donated the colorful artwork that dotted his walls and tossed it into the flames with a call for _The Library_.

Draco wondered what library he might be calling and how that was in any way germane to the current situation, but then Harry shouted the Weasel's name into the floo and suddenly the location made sense. Draco crossed his arms and leaned against the bookshelf to observe the exchange.

A minute later, a freckled face appeared in the flames, made no more or less attractive by the green tint. "Mornin', 'arry. Wuff's up?" Disgustingly, he seemed to be speaking with an entire scone in his mouth. Crumbs and spittle accompanied his greeting and Draco was exceedingly grateful the floo reflected an image only. 

"Hey, Ron," Harry said, totally unfazed by the uncouth behavior. "I've got a favor to ask: can you tell your mum I'm not going to make it to Christmas this year? My mind is made up but I know she'll try to argue and I don't want to accidentally say something that will hurt her feelings."

" _Wha'_?" Weasley protested (more crumbs flying), disappointment writ large across his ginger features. He visibly swallowed, to Draco's immeasurable relief, and continued, "This isn't about those nasty articles in the Prophet this morning, is it? You know mum doesn't take any stock in that rubbish."

Harry groaned. "I haven't seen the papers yet and I don't want to know," he replied, holding a hand up to put a stop to any further mention of the news. "I don't want to go into details--you can ask your sister about it if you want to know more--but she made it clear that I wasn't welcome at the Burrow."

"Shit, don't listen to Gin, mate," Weasley urged, "She doesn't get to decide. Mum'll be crushed if you're not there. She's been so excited that you were finally going to come around again. She's missed you, you know," he said, expression doleful. "We all have."

Harry tugged at his damp hair, distressed to be upsetting his friend."I'm sorry, Ron," he replied, "but I just don't think it's going to work. Ginny is hopping mad and I'm none too pleased with her myself after the Howler she sent--"

"She didn't!"

"She did," Harry affirmed. "And Draco heard every word of it."

Weasley shook his head in frustration. "Stupid bint. I _told_ her not to do that. She called me after she saw the articles, demanding if I knew. We got into a row about it. I'd hoped she would be able to act like an adult; she was the one who served _you_ with divorce papers, after all."

"I don't really want to talk about Ginny right now," Harry said tightly. "The point is, I'm not going to make it for Christmas. Maybe you and Hermione and your mum and dad can come over to my place on Boxing Day. Andromeda and Teddy are going to be there. And maybe Draco and Narcissa, too," Harry looked over his shoulder to smile hopefully at Draco, who was caught off-guard by the invitation.

Weasley peered around Harry to look at Draco. "Oh hey, Malfoy. I didn't see you there before," he greeted, disarmingly friendly. "Sorry about the Howler. Ginny can be a right bitch when she's in a snit."

The last several minutes had been surreal to the point of the Draco wondering if he was actually awake or still dreaming. "Hello, Weasley," he said uncertainly. "And thank you, but you didn't send it so there's no need to apologize."

"All the same," Weasley replied sympathetically. He turned back to Harry, "Ok, mate. I'll talk to mum. I'll smooth this out somehow."

Harry relaxed and grinned at his friend. "Thanks, Ron," he said. The two waved goodbyes and Harry closed the connection.

"Were you, by any chance, referring to my _aunt_ Andromeda?" Draco asked when Harry stood and turned to face him. From Harry's pained grimace, Draco made a mental note to suggest investing in a plush rug for the hearth, but there were more important matters to attend to at the moment.

Harry stooped brushed off his denims (although it seemed pointless when both trouser legs were torn at the knee). "Yeah, she and Teddy were going to spend the winter hols over at Grimmauld Place with me, helping fix it up and keeping me from puttering around an empty house all by myself." He straightened up and said, "We made those plans before you were in the picture but I was hoping you'd be willing to join us."

Draco's mind raced with questions and newly-born connections. Teddy must be Edward Lupin, the cousin he had never met, and possibly Harry's mystery artist. Draco vaguely remembered something about Harry being the boy's godfather. And Harry just invited him to spend Christmas with his adoptive family. That seemed a momentous development. 

His thoughts circled back around to the mention of Grimmauld Place."The Black estate?" he queried. "Is that where my aunt and cousin live? I thought they resided in the Tonks house."

"They do," Harry answered. "Grimmauld is mine. My godfather, Sirius, left it to me."

Draco reeled. "Oh. I hadn't known," he said lamely.

Harry continued blithely, unaware of the way the floor seemed to shift and tilt beneath Draco's feet. "I sold my flat and moved into Grimmauld after Ginny left, but it needs a lot of work still. Andromeda, Kreacher, and I spent the summer cleaning it out, with some help from Ron, Hermione, and the Longbottoms, but it has a long way to go before it'll feel like a home. At least we got rid of most of the doxies and boggarts, and 'Mione _reducto'ed_ the wall your great aunt's horrible portrait was stuck to after she called her mudblood one time too many. It made the entryway much airier," Harry chuckled at his own joke.

"Wait," Draco entreated, brain struggling to slot all this new information into place. " _That's_ where you took me last night?"

"Yeah. That's my house," Harry answered like it had been clear from the beginning. 

Draco blanched and he feared for one brief moment that he might faint.

"Draco, are you ok?" Harry asked, worry etched in his features.

Draco willed himself to stabilize. "Yes. I'm simply trying to process all this. You're living in one of my family's ancestral homes, with actual members of my family, whom I've never met although I've been trying for years. It's a lot to take in."

Harry's worry shifted to a look of perplexity. "What's kept you from meeting Andromeda and Teddy?"

"The small matter all of my letters being returned unopened," Draco replied, somewhat bitterly.

He had very little family left and so he'd been trying to reconnect with Andromeda for the last several years, for his sake as well as his mother's. He thought it would do them both good to reestablish those ties. But Andromeda seemed determined to maintain her distance from the family that had shunned her. Draco couldn't help but think she might find some things in common with her nephew if she'd only give him the chance to introduce himself properly.

"I'll talk to her," Harry said, like it was as simple as that. "If I can convince her to come around would you consider spending Boxing Day and maybe a few other days over the hols with us?"

Draco could not believe the strange twists and turns his life had taken of late. It was probably Harry's influence--his life had always been strange, and it often worked out for the best. Draco could only hope that bit would apply to him, as well.

"I would be honored," he replied. Then, "Since your other plans fell through, would you be willing to come to the Manor on Christmas?"

To Draco's consternation, Harry seemed ambivalent about the idea.  "If your mum's ok with it," he finally replied.

 _He is unsure of his welcome_ , Draco realized. _  
_

"She would be thrilled," he said without hesitation.

Harry snorted. "I've heard _that_ before."

"Yes, but this time it's true," Draco smirked. "You can ask her yourself later today."

Harry looked as though he'd been reminded of an appointment with a Dementor.

"Chin up, Potter," Draco cheered, taking Harry's chin between his thumb and forefinger and giving it a shake. "It won't be as bad as all that. And if you put on a good show, I'll make it worth your while," Draco promised with a saucy wink.

Predictably, Harry brightened. "Then what are we waiting for?" he asked with a grin.

Draco looked Harry up and down and gave a derisive sniff. "I said you had to put on a _good_ show. That means robes."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Get to it," Draco ordered with a sound slap to Harry's denim-clad arse.

Harry yelped. "Save that for later, you beast," he grumbled, but his eyes twinkled with mirth.

Surreal, all of it.

Wonderfully so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're *finally* going to the Manor. It only took like 80 chapters to get there. It's been a real nail-biter ;)


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, folks. I had a harder time with this chapter. 
> 
> But nearly 500 kudos? Thank you so, so much! I so appreciate your kind encouragement.

Harry stumbled out of the fireplace fearing he would fall arse over tit, but Draco caught and steadied him, having learned by now to expect such an ungainly exit.

He flashed a grateful smile and straightened his robes.

Compared to the experience of walking up the long drive, arriving at the Manor via floo was somewhat anti-climactic, but the intimidating elegance of the estate was hardly diminished. Harry felt ill at ease surrounded by so many priceless and irreplaceable things--he just knew he was going to bump into a stand and topple some four hundred year old vase or lean up against a medieval tapestry and snag the threads with one of his buttons. So he stood stiffly with his elbows tucked tight against his sides.

"Relax, Harry," Draco murmured. "This is my home, not a museum."

He did relax a bit at that, but it had more to do with Draco's gentle tone than his words. Though the Manor wasn't technically a museum, it had enough ancient artifacts and snooty ambiance to compete with one.

The wallpaper and furnishings in the room they currently occupied were various shades of green with coppery accents here and there. When Harry let himself appreciate the full effect rather than simply focusing on the fact it was bigger than his entire Hogwarts living area and more richly decorated than a room not belonging to a royal had any right to be, he could admit that it was rather nice.

Draco watched him closely, eager for his reaction.

"I like the color scheme," Harry said honestly. Thinking Draco might like showing him around, he asked, "Can I have a tour?"

Draco grinned, but a house-elf appeared with a startling pop before he could properly reply.

"Master Draco," the elf greeted, bobbing a curtsy with the ends of her apron/dress held in her spindly fingers, "Mistress Narcissa is wanting to greet you and Mr Potter in the southern conservatory."

Draco nodded. "Thank you, Mipsy. Please tell Mother we will be there shortly."

 _Please and thank you?_ Harry had known that Draco was different than the entitled little shit he'd been in school, but he hadn't known that change went as far as extending the courtesy of manners to a house-elf.

Draco must have noticed him gawking because he smirked. "Are you surprised I didn't order her to iron her hands for intruding on our privacy?" he inquired sarcastically.

"No!" Harry denied vehemently, disturbed by the very idea. "I just didn't expect quite that level of politeness."

"Hm." Draco's gaze went speculative. "Were you not aware that all of our elves are free?"

Harry goggled. " _Really_? I didn't know."

"Yes, they were all given clothes at the end of Mother's house arrest," Draco replied. "It was something of a symbolic gesture, you see," he said, almost whimsically (as if Draco Malfoy could ever be described as whimsical). "They were beside themselves at first, thinking that we meant to put them out on the street, but we offered employment to any that wished to remain at the Manor. Happily, they all did. I promised to treat them better than my father had and I am a man of my word. I should think that even Ms Granger-Weasley could find little fault with the care and treatment of our valued house staff."

Harry was awestruck. "How is it possible that you just get better and better?" he said on a breath, cupping the back of Draco's neck to reel him in for a kiss.

"It seems that you didn't know me half as well as you thought you did," Draco answered smugly, eyes shining with satisfaction.

Harry gave a dopey grin. "Apparently not."

Draco seemed to have been perilously close to grinning like an idiot himself, but he resisted. "Come, let's not keep Mother waiting," he said instead, prim and proper. "I will give you an abbreviated tour on the way."

Harry followed obediently as Draco led him through halls so vast Harry had to crane his neck to see the intricately designed plaster ceilings. Their footsteps echoed loudly on the gleaming hardwood and marble floors.

Each room had a different color palette and art period or style associated with it--which further convinced Harry the Manor was simply a museum that people happened to live in--and Draco relished the opportunity to tell the historical significance of a variety of Malfoy heirlooms along the way.

He also told bawdy stories attached to the areas they passed ('Great Great Great Grandmother Abelia, whose portrait hangs in the East Library, had those floor-to-ceiling mirrors installed because she liked to have a good view of the action. Merlin knows why--she has the face of a horse and a body to match.' 'Legend has it this room was entirely redone after Great Grandfather Septimus accidentally burned its predecessor to the ground by knocking over a candelabra during Grandfather Abraxas' conception.')

Harry ooh'd and aah'd and laughed as appropriate, while most of his mind was focused entirely on Draco. The way he narrated their tour showed that he still possessed a great deal of family pride in spite of the negative way he'd talked about his father and the pureblood ideals, and he seemed to be genuinely enjoying sharing his home and its history with Harry, but in some ways he was more aloof, more formal than Harry had become accustomed to. His posture was stiff and his elocution more careful, and he maintained a slight distance from Harry that felt like a yawning chasm for all that it was a few inches.

It wasn't until they neared the conservatory and Harry's pulse sped up and his palms began to sweat in response that he divined the reason for Draco's odd behavior: he was nervous.

While that knowledge was something of a comfort as far as Harry's understanding of Draco was concerned, it did nothing to ease his own anxiety.

Upon entering the conservatory, they walked through the charmed, sunlit warmth of the room and its lush, blooming fragrance to find Narcissa Malfoy, seated on a stone bench. Surrounded by flowers of all different types, she was ethereal in a wispy white gown, sparkling diamonds, and creamy pearls, her face placid and serene. Light streamed in through the glass walls in such a way that her pale blond hair glowed like a halo. Though she looked like an angel, Harry felt as nervous as if he were dining with the devil.

When she saw them, she flowed off the bench, silk swirling around her elegant form, and glided to Draco, whose hand she took into her pale, delicate own and whose cheek she brushed with a whisper of a kiss.

She turned to Harry and said, "Welcome to my home, Mr. Potter," in a melodic voice that rang with precise articulation (a study in contradictions) and offered him her fine-boned hand.

He didn't know if he was supposed to shake it, kiss it, or bow over it. Paralyzed by indecision, he grasped it limply and replied, "Thank you. And please call me Harry."

"Very well," she responded, gaze inscrutable, "Then you must call me Narcissa."

Draco started. It was barely perceptible, but Harry had been watching him closely for cues about how he should behave. Unfortunately, he had no idea how to interpret this one. Was Draco surprised that his mother had dispensed with formality? Or was it a trap, in which case Harry was supposed to call her Mrs Malfoy despite the offer? Or something else entirely?

His inability to read Draco (who was acting more guarded since entering his mother's presence) left Harry with no choice but to default to his natural inclination, which was to take a person's meaning at face value and hope for the best.

"Ok, Narcissa," was his somewhat stilted reply. "You, um, have a beautiful home."

Narcissa regarded him closely. "I am flattered you think so."

At this distance, Harry could see that she had aged since the last time they'd spoken--faint lines branched off the sides of her eyes and edges of her lips, and a touch of grey streaked her hair, difficult to tell with the lightness of the rest of it. But she was still beautiful (it was plain to see where Draco got his looks) and her eyes were as blue and sharp as ever. Harry almost felt like she could see into his very soul.

 _Wait._ She could _._ Draco had warned him that Narcissa was an accomplished Legillimens.  _Shit_.

As soon as Harry remembered that anxiety-boosting fact, he tried to wipe his mind of all incriminating thoughts. And as soon as he did _that_ , his contrary brain happily provided a graphic picture show of Things Narcissa Definitely Should Not See and a furious blush heated his face.

Narcissa quirked a tiny smile at him, very much like Draco's--knowing and warm, with more than a hint of smirk to it. " _Harry_ ," she said, touching her fingertips to the side of his arm, "you are my guest. It is my duty to ensure that you are comfortable and well cared for. You need not fear my censure."

Godrick, she was definitely probably reading his mind. Either that, or she was very good at interpreting nonverbal cues (or Harry was very poor at not telegraphing every single thought that passed through his head, which was entirely possible). "Erm, right. Sorry," he mumbled. He then turned pleading eyes to Draco to save him.

But surprisingly, Narcisa stepped in first. "Draco, darling, did you hear that the Greengrasses are planning an addition to their home?" she asked, apropos of nothing, turning to face Draco mostly (and give Harry a much-needed break from the force of her attention).

It seemed an innocuous statement, but Draco's eyes bulged. Though the family name sounded vaguely familiar, Harry couldn't place it.

"I hadn't heard that," Draco answered cautiously. "I was unaware their financial situation had altered sufficiently to allow for such an expenditure."

"Oh yes," Narcisa replied, eyes twinkling, "Quite recently they became the beneficiaries of a rather substantial financial windfall, though it is a shame that their youngest shows a disappointing lack of discretion." She turned back to Harry to add, "I am pleased to know that you understand the value of keeping private matters private, Harry. It seems that so many young people these days have forsaken the most basic principles of etiquette."

Draco swallowed thickly. Harry was now convinced there was an important conversation taking place completely over his head.

In a watery voice, Draco replied, "How fortunate," saving Harry the trouble of trying to come up with a suitable response of his own. "...I hope that all parties are satisfied with these new circumstances." (Harry sensed that was a question even though the wording suggested otherwise.)

"I am given to understand they are," Narcissa answered, clasping her hands demurely in front of her. "As with any change, some dissent and dissatisfaction is to be expected, but I believe that the individuals whose opinions matter most are content." She angled her head, peering at Draco through her lashes (something else Harry had seen Draco do, but he refused to think on that further when he remembered the context in which he had seen it before). "Would you agree?" she asked.

"Yes, definitely," Draco answered quickly, nearly reaching out to touch her before he apparently thought better of it. "This is a change for the better, for all involved," he asserted.

Narcissa nodded. "Good."

Harry continued to look back-and-forth between mother and son in the vain hope of decoding hidden meanings or at least deciphering a clue.

"Thank you for...letting me know," Draco said earnestly. Harry had the distinct impression the second half of the sentence wasn't what he really meant.

"Of course." Narcissa gazed fondly at her son. She then expanded her focus to include Harry, and though she didn't smile, her expression was warm. "Forgive me for keeping you from your lunch--I merely wished to extend my personal welcome. I am sure Draco can think of some pleasant diversions to occupy your time before dinner, when I shall join you again. Until then, please make yourselves at home."

"Thank you," Harry said simply. He was baffled by the entirety of the exchange and trying to tame the resurgence of his blush from Narcissa's 'pleasant diversions' comment. 

Draco lead them out of the conservatory. Harry's mind raced. When he was sure they were well out of earshot he turned on Draco and demanded, "What the hell was that all about? It felt like you two were speaking a foreign language even though I was sure all the individual words were English."

Draco's face split into a dazzling grin and he grabbed Harry by the shoulders, giving him an excited shake. "She bought out the betrothal contract!" 

Harry's poor, overstrained brain nearly gave up on the spot. He was going to need a good deal more explanation than that. 


	41. Chapter 41

"Huh?" Harry eloquently gaped.

Draco used his index and middle fingers to shut Harry's mouth with a gentle press.

"I hadn't yet told you: Astoria gave an exclusive of her own to the Prophet in the form of a scathing interview. It appeared in this morning's edition," he explained. "There is almost no surer way out of Mother's good graces than making a public spectacle of private business. You seem to have impressed her by doing otherwise. I am sure she appreciated the fact you apparated us away rather than making a scene in front of the restaurant last night. I know I did." Draco smiled winsomely.

Lines of consternation continued to mar Harry's brow. "But she hadn't even met me yet--not in the context of us dating, anyway--when she bought out the contract; how can she be so sure I'm a better match for you than Astoria?"

"I believe her decision had less to do with you and more to do with her finally accepting that marrying Astoria wouldn't bring me the happiness she had hoped. I'm sure she has been mulling the idea over since she and I spoke last weekend, as is her wont. Astoria going to the press probably just accelerated Mother's timeline--the conclusion was inevitable, I think. And besides, she has met you before. Although it wasn't in the context of us dating, the fact remains that you have done more for our family than most anyone _and_ you're the bloody Hero of the Wizarding World. I would be hard pressed to find a better match in anyone--male or female, pureblooded or not."

Harry grimaced slightly at the mention of his hero status and Draco had to remind himself that, inconceivable as it was, Harry didn't like being referred to in conjunction with the titles and honors he had rightly earned, especially not when said references were associated with any kind of preferential treatment.

"And it's as simple as that?" he asked, disbelieving still.

Draco smirked, "What, did you _want_ it to be difficult?" But he found himself disoriented by Harry's reaction. _Shouldn't he be pleased?_

Harry screwed up his face. "No, of course not," he answered earnestly. "I guess I just expected it would be. I'm not used to things working out exactly how I wanted them to."

That confession caused the knotted tension in Draco's stomach to loosen. "I never took you for such a pessimist," he teased on a breathy chuckle.

Harry grinned ruefully and shrugged. "After enough shitty things happen to you, it has to become realism at some point. I start to worry when things seem to be going well."

Draco could certainly resonate with that experience. "Well maybe it's our turn to have some happiness, for a change," he philosophized. " _You_ deserve it, at least."

"Don't talk like you don't," Harry scolded.

"You're right, I put up with your snoring," Draco ribbed, deflecting Harry's edict because he didn't want to fight it outright and spoil the mood. "That has to be worth something."

Harry looked affronted."I do not snore!"

Draco nodded solemnly, "Like a wildebeest." (In truth, Harry only snored on occasion and even then it was just cute little snuffling sounds, but Draco would deny having thought as much under threat of anything less than the cruciatus.)

By the look on his face, Harry was beginning to doubt himself so Draco took pity. "I'm only joking," he said, squeezing Harry's shoulder again. He then looked sideways and muttered, "But you _are_ a terrible bed hog."

"Hah! Now I know you're having me on. One of us is an unrepentant bed hog and it isn't me."

Draco gave his best cherubic expression and it made Harry laugh all the harder.

A pervasive, effervescent joy buoyed up the corners of Draco's lips as he watched Harry double over with laughter. The unchecked smile, which pushed the bounds of any he'd ever allowed grace his features, told him that Harry was correct--things were going well. Spectacularly, in fact.

A treacherous voice warned him not to trust the feeling but he viciously snuffed it out. Draco could only pray this really was his turn at happiness. Now that he had tasted its sweetness, felt its warmth on his face, there was no way he would let it go.

Not without a fight.

\------

On the way to the dining room he'd selected for their lunch, Draco gave Harry a leisurely tour of more of the Manor's interior; mercifully, he avoided rooms that contained memories neither one of them wanted to revisit. In the light of day, with the curtains drawn open, merry fires crackling in the fireplaces, and no specter of Voldemort or his minions fouling up the place, Harry could see how it might feel like home to someone (namely Draco). It was far too big and ornate for Harry's preferences, but it wasn't quite as stifling and oppressive as he had feared at first.

Narcissa's startlingly friendly welcome had more than a little to do with his revised opinion.

They passed through the main entryway, which was absurdly large--it could rival any open area of Hogwarts save the Great Hall. Harry was reminded of the last time he'd been there (looking in, anyway) and the question that had plagued him about that day.

"Draco, why were you such a prat to me when I came here to deliver your wand?"

Draco's body stiffened then drooped slightly. "Come on then," he said resignedly, ushering Harry into what appeared to be an office or study with dark leather furniture and an imposing mahogany writing desk.

Harry sat in one of the armchairs and Draco offered him what looked to be brandy from a crystal decanter on the side board. He declined. Draco poured a measure for himself and claimed the seat adjacent to Harry.

He took a rather long drink, then rested his tumbler on his thigh and met Harry's stare. "I wasn't exactly at my best then, was I?" he asked rhetorically. "I'll admit, I was stunned when I received your owl. I had assumed I would never hear from you again, except possibly in passing at a Ministry function or somesuch. I'd also given up the hope of ever reclaiming my wand, though I had planned on writing to you to inquire about it eventually."

He sighed gustily through his nostrils and gazed into the amber liquid in his glass as if it held the words he sought. "Debts are tricky things. I was taught to collect them wherever possible but to avoid incurring them at all costs. To owe someone a debt is to be at their mercy. It is the weaker position. And weakness is anethema to a Malfoy. Yet you seemed determined to gain as many different kinds of debts from me and my family as you could muster, without even trying. First the life debts and then the debt of kindness for your testimony and the wand. It was humbling. Humiliating.

"Beyond that, I couldn't bear for you to see me as I was, so frail and pathetic. I hadn't expected you at the trial; my certainty that I was destined for Azkaban was the only thing that kept me from worrying overmuch about my appearance then. But when you announced your intention to pay a visit, I suddenly became hyper-aware of just how sickly I looked.

"I spent all that morning on glamours to mask my pallor and how bony I'd become. They were difficult to maintain with my borrowed wand, which is part of why I didn't want you to linger. The main reason, however, was that I could not bear the thought of you looking down on me with pity. Or anything like it."

Harry could understand now why Draco had been so reluctant to talk about this. He wanted to argue, to say that he never would have dreamt of looking down on Draco or pitying him, but the words rang hollow. So he bit the inside of his cheek and listened quietly (and regretted not taking him up on the offer of a drink).

Draco looked at him again, gaze steady, if sad. "Although it wasn't what I truly wanted, I was able to accept our schoolyard rivalry because we were at least on something like even ground as long as you considered me a worthy adversary. But to no longer have that small comfort felt like losing you--and losing _to_ you--completely. It made me defensive, pettish. An arsehole, to borrow your term," he gave a small smile. "I was, and am, more grateful than I can say that you returned the wand to me. For what it is worth, I'm sorry I was ungracious and inexcusably rude when you did so."

"It's bygones," Harry said meaningfully. "I was just curious, is all."

Draco's smile turned wry as he lifted his glass to his mouth. "Is your curiosity satisfied?" he drawled over the rim before tilting his head back and polishing off the drink.

Harry forgot to answer because he was too caught up in watching the muscles work in Draco's throat.

Draco caught him staring. "You're insatiable," he smirked.

"I never was before you," Harry protested. "So it must be your fault."

"That is blame I am quite willing to accept, for once," Draco replied, smiling still, "but we should be getting to our lunch if we are to have any appetite come dinner."

It made sense to Harry (though his prick begged to differ) so they departed for the 'informal' dining room, which only had _one_ heavily jeweled chandelier suspended above the table.

They ate a light lunch of assorted sandwiches and a spring salad with plump, juicy strawberries and candied walnuts. Conversation was pleasant and easy and Harry was enjoying himself immensely, until he dropped a forkful of salad on his lap. His clumsiness resulted in an impressively large oil stain on his best robes, the robes he planned on wearing through their formal dinner to impress Narcissa.

Harry narrowly avoided swearing (the refined air of the Manor didn't seem the place for it) but he scowled at the spot knowing the fabric was too delicate to attempt a _scourgify_.

"Don't worry about it," Draco said breezily. "We'll head up to my room when we are finished here. I'm sure I have something you can wear with only minor alterations and Mipsy will have your robes clean and pressed in no time."

Harry's irritation at himself put him off the rest of his meal, so it was just a matter of minutes before Draco decided he, too, had had enough and they ascended the grand staircase to the family living quarters.

Harry couldn't help but snort when Draco showed him to his bedroom. "It looks like a fancier version of the Slytherin dorms."

"I happen to _like_ the Slytherin dorms," Draco drawled.

Harry was about to deliver a clever retort ('You _would_.') when an elf appeared. Mipsy, if he wasn't mistaken.

"Master Draco," she squeaked, "a representative from Salinger, Brockburn, & Associates is in the floo. Mister be saying he has a question about the account. Is Mipsy to be telling him to call back tomorrow?"

"Good timing, Mipsy," Draco replied. "I'll speak to the man. Please stay with Harry so you can take his robes from him--he had a run-in with some salad dressing." He turned to Harry, "This should only take a minute. Have a look through my wardrobe and see if anything strikes your fancy."

Draco left without waiting for a reply and Mispy did as instructed, coughing politely when Harry stood staring at her instead of disrobing. Her big brown eyes were trained unblinkingly on him. It was disturbing.

He turned his back and peeled the robes off, handing them in a bundle to the elf. He stood awkwardly in his underthings until she bowed and disappeared with a quiet pop. (It seemed all house-elves had mastered the skill except for Kreacher. Either that, or he was intentionally loud just to be contrary.)

Harry opened the wardrobe and began rifling through Draco's clothes. Most of them just weren't his style--either too severe or too flamboyant, with little in between. While he was considering a charcoal grey set with a simple cut, a wooden box on the floor caught his eye. Harry waffled between his conscience telling him (in Hermione's voice) to let it lie  because it was obviously private being hidden like that, and his curiosity urging him to have a peak. Draco _had_ given him permission to look through his things...

"What have you got there?" Draco asked from behind him a minute or two later. 

"Something that caught my eye," Harry grinned cheekily, holding up the Quidditch Quarterly charity calendar for Draco to see. A half-naked Oliver Wood slung his broom across his shoulders and flexed, gaze smoldering.

Draco snatched it from Harry. "I'll have you know this is a collectors item," he huffed, shutting the calendar carefully and returning it to the box.

"Then why don't you get it framed and hang it up? It would be better appreciated that way," Harry teased.

"It's no matter to _you_ ," Draco answered, poking him in the center of the chest. "You have plenty to appreciate right in front of you."

Harry hummed. "You make an excellent point." He reached for Draco but the git slipped out of his grasp with feline agility.

"Hands off until dinner's over," he mandated. "It wouldn't do to arrive looking well-shagged. And try the burgundy robes. They're fitted in the waist and should be flattering to your pyramid shape."

As Draco had predicted, the robes weren't half-bad. They only needed to be let out in the shoulders and shortened a bit. And they had the added bonus of smelling like Draco.

Harry couldn't wait until dinner was done, and it _definitely_ was Draco's fault.


	42. Chapter 42

After Harry changed, Draco took him for a walk about the grounds. The gardens held a certain appeal even when many of the trees had shed their leaves and the flowering plants lost their blooms. The air was cool but fresh and the soil had dried out nicely since the last rain.

It was cold enough that the smaller ponds had frozen over. To this day, Draco wondered what the fish and frogs and turtles did to survive the winter. He'd thought of them often, trapped beneath the ice like that, when he'd been a prisoner of his own home.

Next to him, Harry blew into his cupped hands and rubbed them vigorously against each other, teeth chattering.

"You're a _wizard_ , use a warming charm," Draco remarked snidely.

"I don't like casting them on myself," Harry replied, tucking his hands into his pockets. "They make my skin dry and chapped and my hair stands up even worse than usual." He looked out over the open field and his eyes took on a mischievous gleam. "I have a better idea for how we can get warm."

Draco scoffed. "What has gotten into you? I sincerely hope it isn't some kind of kink that has to do with being in the same house as my mother."

"Ew! No! I didn't even mean sex that time," Harry protested fervidly. "I was thinking that since you've got all this wide open space, if you had a couple of brooms laying around we could play a Seekers game. You know, for old times' sake." His face took on a mixture of sweet bashfulness and childlike eagerness.

How could Draco say no?

He summoned Luffkins to fetch gloves, goggles, two firebolts, and a snitch out of the broom shed.

Harry's delighted grin was infectious. "When was last time you flew for fun?" he asked.

"Far too long," Draco answered regretfully. "Not since fifth year. You?"

"It's been about a year since I played a pick up game but I've taken a few turns on Hogwarts' pitch since school started. I love flying. It might be my favorite thing in the Wizarding world. But don't worry," he smirked, "I'll go easy on you."

Draco glared. "Don't you dare," he hissed. "You play your best or you'll be sleeping alone tonight."

Harry held up his hands in surrender. "In that case, I will play my heart out!"

Just then Luffkins appeared, laden with a surfeit of gear twice his size. Draco relieved him of the burden and thanked him for his service (observing from the corner of his eye Harry's pleased expression when he did so). He asked Luffkins to release the snitch while he and Harry suited up so it would have time to gain some ground before they took flight.

"These dress robes are impractical," Harry lamented, plucking at the front of the garment.

Draco swatted Harry's fingers from the fabric (which had been crumpling under the boorish assault). "Well, we are at an equal disadvantage, so quit whinging," he admonished. "And fly _carefully_. I expect my robes to be free of grass stains and mud when we're through."

Harry gave an impish half smile, eyes shining. "Careful is my middle name."

Draco snorted. "Says the man who once caught the snitch with his mouth."

"Whatever wins the game," Harry chuckled. He snapped his googles into place and swung a leg over his firebolt. "Ready when you are, Malfoy."

Nearly giddy with exhilaration, Draco mounted his own broom and kicked hard off the ground, rocketing skyward with a hoot of laughter.

His robes flapped in the biting wind. It stung his cheeks and stole the breath from his lungs. His hair whipped around his face as he took the broomstick into a showy spin, heart racing and adrenaline pumping.

The firebolt wasn't quite as responsive as he remembered it being (or maybe his reflexes just weren't as sharp as they used to be), but he pulled out of the spin and leveled off easily enough.

Harry ascended to his side, grinning from ear to ear. "You've still got it," he said breathlessly.

"Let's see if _you've_ still got it, Potter," Draco taunted and tore off at a breakneck pace toward a copse of trees that would make good cover. It was silly to start racing before the snitch had been spotted, but when he spared a glance over his shoulder to see Harry bearing down on him, quick and fierce as a falcon, he put on a burst of speed and whooped for the pure thrill of it.

Harry matched him turn for turn, dipping and twirling and diving as gracefully as any creature born to soar. Draco almost regretted the fact he couldn't just sit and watch him fly, magnificent as he was. But there was a snitch to capture.

After enough time had passed for them to cease with the extravagant maneuvers and slow to a more sedate pace, Draco caught a flash of gold in his periphery. The snitch was hovering near a fountain, about thirty feet off the ground.

Draco eased the nose of his broom toward it, trying to creep closer without Harry noticing. He kept one eye trained on the fluttering orb, the other on Harry, poised on a knife's edge for the moment the chase was on.

Harry cocked his head at Draco and immediately began scanning the surrounding area. Draco tightened his grip on the broom handle, leather gloves groaning against the smooth wood, and slowly approached the fountain at a deceptive angle.

He felt more than saw the instant Harry spotted the snitch, and he banked hard to the right, changing his trajectory to meet it head on. He leaned forward until he was practically laying on the broom, coaxing every last bit of speed he could out of the thing.

Harry was hot on his heels.

Racing was different without the pressure of house pride and a scornful father weighing him down; Draco felt lighter and freer than the broom's magic could account for. He cut directly in front of Harry with a tight roll that plastered the contents of his stomach to his sides and Harry was forced to ease up or risk a collision.

Draco took the second's lead the risky move bought him to push the broom into a steep dive until he was barreling down on the snitch from above (and rushing headlong toward a painful impact with the ground).

Seeming to sense his nearness, the snitch abandoned its lazy fluttering and darted away, parallel to the lawn and low. Draco altered his angle to follow directly behind, gaining on it with his broom's superior speed.

Harry recovered quickly and pulled nearly even with Draco but he didn't dare look away from the snitch to try to gauge his marginal lead. Draco extended his hand, stretching until the muscles in his shoulder screamed in protest and his fingers nearly brushed the delicate buzzing wings.

He was _right there_. But so was Harry.

Draco estimated they were fifteen to twenty feet off the ground. This was going to hurt.

Heart in his throat, he leapt off the broom and caught the ball out of the air, rejoicing in victory even as he pulled his limbs in close (snitch fluttering in the cage of his fingers against his chest) to hit the ground in a roll that would hopefully lessen the impact.

Draco closed his eyes and braced for a crash that didn't come. His body jerked to a stop instead, jostling his joints and rattling his skull painfully but nothing like it would have been if he'd hit something solid. He cracked an eye and saw that he hovered a foot above the lawn.

He craned his neck to see Harry land next to him, abandoning broom and goggles to the ground and stomping over with an expression that was part concern, part scowl.

"Are you **mental**?!" he shouted, depositing Draco with a bump on his arse. "You could have broken something!"

A laugh bubbled up from Draco's chest. He held the snitch out to marvel at it, ignoring the cold seeping in through his robes. It sat quietly in his hand, glinting in the setting sun, incontrovertible proof that he had really, truly won.

When he looked back at Harry, his expression softened into one of affectionate dismay. "You almost gave me a heart attack, you barmy berk," he said, shaking his head. 

Draco grinned, elation coursing through his veins. "Whatever wins the game, Harry."


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short chapter, but a good one, I hope.

If Narcissa thought Harry's wardrobe change odd, she didn't comment on it. Draco had seen to it that they were both perfectly presentable for dinner after their impromptu match, but the fact Harry's brown robes were now burgundy was fairly noticeable. (It was probably rude to comment on obvious things--there were so many bloody _rules_ that governed pureblood social interactions it made Harry's palms itch.)

Less noticeable, except if one knew to be looking for it, was the mild but persistent flush that colored Draco's cheeks from their time outside. He had spelled his hair back into place and made certain no trace of grass or dirt remained on his bum, but when he'd gone to apply a healing charm to his face to erase the pink windburned tinge, Harry had asked him to leave it and Draco had reluctantly agreed.

Harry liked the visible reminder of their game (and the utter brilliance of a recklessly carefree Draco). He'd had been so happy for Draco when he caught the snitch...that is, _after_ he got over his panic and fury at the git for jumping off his broom like a bloody lunatic. Draco had sat in the grass, laughing with amazement and staring at the little gold ball as if he couldn't quite believe he'd actually won.

It had been close. Harry thought he might have snagged it first if it weren't for Draco's uncharacteristically Gryffindor play. But Draco had beaten him to the snitch, fair and square. And when Harry had helped him up off the ground, he'd thrown himself into Harry's arms and snogged him senseless.

Harry smiled to remember it. He decided he didn't mind losing to Draco all that much.

When he realized his thoughts were wandering into dangerous territory, he looked up to find Narcissa studying him from across the dining table. Because of course she was.

Harry nervously cleared his throat and turned his attention to the perfectly cooked pork loin on his plate. The translucent pearl onions that surrounded it were soft and sweet, the wine reduction dark and flavorful. He was trying to savor his food and not spill anything on himself or the gold brocaded tablecloth. It was more difficult than it should have been.

"Tell me, Harry," Narcissa spoke sociably, "how are you enjoying your first year at Hogwarts? Draco informed me that your classes are quite popular, to the extent that you included an additional period just to accommodate all those who were interested."

Harry glanced at Draco who betrayed nothing with his stoic silence.

"My celebrity status hasn't worn off as much as I would like, I'm afraid," he answered. "But I had a fair number of students ask to drop the course after the first exam scores came back. I'm not sure what they were expecting, but apparently failing grades weren't on the list," he shook his head reproachfully, remembering the shock and disappointment those students had expressed over their P's and D's. "I take my classes very seriously," he explained, "and I expect my students to do likewise."

"That is commendable," Narcissa replied. "The Dark Arts especially are not a subject to be trifled with."

"I agree," Harry nodded. He knew more than most the risks they posed. "Anyway, besides that and a few incidents earlier in the year with a disagreeable and vindictive fellow professor who shall remain nameless," Draco kicked Harry, who barely resisted snickering, under the table and Narcissa pretended not to notice, "I have been enjoying my time at Hogwarts quite a bit. The school holds a special place in my heart and I have been teaching Defense in one form or another for some time. It's nice to be able to do it formally and with the support of Hogwarts' academic structure for a change."

"Do you intend to remain in your position long term?" Narcissa asked. Though she spoke gently and smiled serenely, Harry knew an interrogation when he was part of one. He found he didn't much care for being on the receiving end.

Draco stopped glowering to squint curiously at him. Harry supposed he must be interested in the answer, too.

"I do," he replied, looking intently at Narcissa as she gazed steadily back at him. "I know that things are still new, but I am happier now than I ever imagined I could be and I don't want that to change."

Harry was not just talking about Hogwarts. From the way Draco stiffened next to him, he'd realized as much.

Narcissa contemplated him for long seconds. "There is much in life that is beyond our control," came her circumspect reply, "and circumstances frequently change whether we want them to or not."

Harry steeled his spine. She was testing him, of that he was sure. "I know a thing or two about situations beyond my control," he retorted with unwavering eye-contact (though his fingers knotted themselves in his lap), "and I also know that people often have a lot more say in the outcome of their circumstances than they are comfortable admitting. They tend to complain about their supposed lack control and demand more--right up until they're forced to own up to the fact that having it means being responsible when things go poorly."

Harry licked dry lips. "I'm not so naïve as to think things will always be as they are now," he continued, "but I am committed to working through the difficulties that will inevitably arise. I refuse to settle for good when I know things can be _great_."

Harry tore his gaze from Narcissa to look at Draco as he said the last bit.

Draco was staring at him--stormy eyes ever-so-slightly widened and lips parted. Harry couldn't tell if he looked more panicked, awestruck, or turned on. He didn't want to think about how many pureblood rules he'd broken just then.

Movement from Narcissa drew his attention back to her. She took a dainty sip from her wineglass and returned it to the table. Her expression was enigmatic.

"Well put," she said simply and returned to her meal.

One way or another, this portion of the assessment was complete. Harry wasn't sure how well he'd performed, but he'd spoken truthfully and meaningfully and he was proud of that much, at least.

Draco kept shooting unreadable glances his direction while Harry tried to eat his dinner. Annoyed that he hadn't contributed anything to the conversation so far and uncomfortable with all the focus being on him, Harry leaned conspiratorially toward Narcissa to say, "Has Draco happened to mention that he's Hogwarts' most popular Potions Master in decades?" He smirked at Draco. "It doesn't hurt that he's the best looking one they've ever had, but the kids are learning and actually enjoying it. I even heard a couple of my Hufflepuffs discussing possible careers in Potions."

Draco made an aborted choking noise and nearly dropped his fork in response. Narcissa chuckled, a quiet, tinkling sound like wind chimes. Harry grinned. 

"No, he has not mentioned anything like that," she replied, eyes sparkling. "Do go on, Harry."

The rest of the dinner wasn't so bad after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge shout out to everyone who has encouraged this story along. You keep me writing <3


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This not-so-little story has reached a tremendous milestone: more than 10,000 hits! I am continually amazed by how kind and supportive you all have been with my first real foray into writing fanfiction. As I see it, there's only one way to properly thank you...with smut! ;) 
> 
> Enjoy, darlings! <3

After the last plates had been cleared from the table, and Harry was so full he couldn't possibly have taken another bite (Draco had told the house-elves treacle tart was Harry's favourite and he'd felt obliged to eat all of his...and some of Draco's), Narcissa thanked him for the pleasure of his company and informed him a room had been prepared for him in the guest wing.

Harry supposed it had been presumptuous to assume he'd sleep in Draco's room but he felt a pang of disappointment alongside his indigestion. He tried not to let it show. 

When Narcissa offered an elf to escort him to his room, Draco asserted that he would show him the way. Narcissa made a face that Harry wasn't sure how to interpret, but acquiesced. They bid her good night and Draco lead Harry out.

Harry's rooms were impressive--spacious and richly decorated. The bed alone was big enough for four. As with the other rooms they had visited, a warm fire flickered in the marble fireplace. There was an en suite bathroom that contained a large, glass-walled walk-in shower with three ( _three!_ ) shower heads at varying heights and a bath that was almost as big as the prefects bath at Hogwarts. Harry thought he and Draco could put such lavish amenities to good use. 

His freshly laundered robes were laid out on the bedspread alongside his overnight things, which he'd forgotten in a pocket in a shrunken package. To his mild embarrassment, whichever elf put them out had also helpfully unshrunken them, pants and all. Harry consoled himself with the thought that the Malfoy house-elves had seen worse, based on the stories Draco told about his family.

"So…" Harry sat on the edge of the bed and crossed his legs, trying for nonchalant. "I was led to believe I would be entitled to certain _privileges_ if I played my best this afternoon."

Draco smirked. "My, my, Potter. Are you getting cheeky with me?" he drawled, arching a brow. 

"That depends. Will cheeky get your trousers off?" Harry bargained, waggling his eyebrows.  

Draco huffed a laugh, seemingly against his will (because he also rolled his eyes and shook his head). He pulled himself together with a dignified sniff. "I suppose you _are_ entitled to some kind of reward for making it through the entire day without embarrassing either one of us too terribly much," he replied sardonically.

Harry snorted but chose not to argue since it sounded like he was going to get his way (albeit with a heaping side of attitude). He uncrossed his legs and reclined back on his forearms, aiming for enticing. Or something. He was pants at this. 

Draco's eyes flashed. "What sort of reward are you interested in, Harry?" he purred, already unfastening his robes (bless him).

Harry didn't want to admit it but something Ginny'd shouted in her nasty Howler had stuck with him, giving him an idea he couldn't shake. It's not that he'd never thought about it before--he was a man, so of course he had--it was just that he had been beyond satisfied by everything he and Draco had tried so far and usually by the time he might have brought it up, Draco had already worked him loose and needy to point he could think of nothing but Draco's prick inside him.

Harry fought a blush. "Actually, I was wondering if, um, we might try something new tonight?" He didn't mean it as a question, but it came out like one anyway.

Draco halted his undressing and tilted his head, pale brows elevated. "Is that so?" he asked slowly.

Harry gulped and nodded.

A predatory smile spread across Draco's face. "And what did you have in mind?"

"Erm," Harry coughed, "I thought I might like to have a go at being on top. That is, only if you're ok with it," he hastened to amend.

Draco's gaze smoldered. He resumed disrobing, but it became an agonizingly slow tease. "For _you_ , I would be more than 'ok with it,' I think," he answered coyly. 

Harry was painfully hard before Draco was done.

When he was fully undressed--long and lean and pale and perfect--Draco spoke, voice deep and sultry, "How do you want me?" and Harry was afraid he might climax from words alone. His prick fairly leapt and his robes were tented obscenely.

"On your hands and knees," he managed, scooting to the side to make room.

Draco smirked, sauntered over to the bed (hips swaying deliciously, prick hanging heavily), and crawled onto it on all fours until he was up by the headboard. He looked over his shoulder at Harry and murmured, "Like this?"

"Sweet Merlin," Harry breathed, feeling lightheaded.

"I'll take that as a yes," Draco chuckled, letting his head fall forward. "Any day now," he added archly after Harry sat there gaping at him far too long.

Harry sprung into action. He pushed himself upright on his knees and fairly fell onto Draco, kissing and biting at his neck and shoulders. He ran his hands appreciatively up and down Draco's sides, at turns gripping his trim waist and jutting hipbones, and kneading his firm thighs and rounded arse.

Draco moaned. He murmured encouragement and leaned into Harry's touches but otherwise stayed passively still, which was quite unlike how he usually was in bed. It was a new thrill, having a complacent Draco Malfoy at his mercy.

Harry licked a broad stripe across Draco's sculpted back, ending with a nuzzle to his beautiful tattoo. The phoenix tossed its head and fanned its wings, delighting Harry. "I think he likes it when I pay attention to him," he grinned.

"Right now you need to pay more attention to the rest of me," Draco growled, shoving his arse back towards Harry.

He got the hint. 

Harry moved to the end of the bed, spread Draco's legs, and stared, a bit intimidated, at Draco's puckered arsehole. He racked his brain to think about the steps Draco usually took to prepare him. He was having trouble putting them together in any sort of coherent fashion--his memories were more of a vague impression of _hot_ and _wet_  and _yes!_ and _more_.

"Tell me what you like," he said uncertainly.

Draco twisted his neck to look at him again, eyes dark and intense under a fall of hair. A jolt of lust shot straight to Harry's groin. "I want you to fuck me with your tongue," he answered in low tones, "and then I want you to fuck me with your fingers, but no more than two because I want to _feel it_ when you fuck me with that wickedly curved cock of yours."

Harry's hands spasmed reflexively on Draco's arsecheeks and he groaned, deep and somewhat pained. "I have a feeling I'm not going to last very long," he warned apologetically. "If I cum before you do, I promise to suck you off, ok?"

Draco chuckled, "One thing at a time. I'm not worried." He wiggled his arse, "So come on then."

Harry hastily cast cleaning and protection charms on both him and Draco then bent forward and administered an experimental swipe of his tongue. Draco shivered under his touch, emitting a tiny whimper. Harry did it again, more firmly this time, and Draco groaned deep in his throat. Emboldened, Harry pressed his tongue against the hole and pushed until it slipped past the tight ring of muscle.

"Like that, pet. More of that," Draco uttered breathily. Harry began tonguing him with gusto and Draco responded in kind, moaning and writhing and generally carrying on like a wanton whore and Harry knew he was one lucky bastard to have someone so sexy and wonderful in his life.

"Fingers now," Draco panted, hot as fuck. "Lubricant's in my left robe pocket."

 _Now who's presumptuous?_ Harry smirked inwardly. 

Not wanting to leave the bed, he tried summoning the lube. The untidy pile of Draco's clothes rustled a bit and a little pot worked its way free, flying with a smack into his open hand. He unscrewed the cap and dipped two fingers in, coating them thoroughly in the silky liquid that smelled (and tasted, he'd learned the other day) like candied oranges.

Biting his lip, he pushed his index finger where his tongue had been moments before, captivated by the sight of the digit disappearing into Draco and the sensation of tight, pulling heat.

"Not _one_ , Harry. Two," Draco commanded impatiently.

"You always make _me_ wait," he countered sassily, pumping his finger shallowly in and out.

"Because we're still learning your limits," Draco said, voice tight, "I know mine. So get your fucking fingers inside of me and fuck me like you mean it," he rasped.

Another punch of lust right in the gut and the breath left Harry's lungs in a whoosh. But he did as he was told. He thrust deeply and dragged his fingers against Draco's inner walls, searching for his prostate. Draco arched his spine and let loose a keening wail.

 _Found it,_ Harry thought smugly and tried to duplicate the action. He could tell he wasn't hitting it every time, but he got it often enough that Draco was singing his praises anyway.

Harry reckoned himself a fool for waiting so long to try this. His neglected prick ached, but he couldn't care less; he could do this all night.

Of course, the moment he had that thought, Draco told him to stop. "That's enough," Draco gasped, breathless and beautiful. "I want your cock."

_Well, when he asked so nicely..._

Harry would have vanished the robes he was wearing if they weren't Draco's. As it was, he stripped in record time and positioned himself behind Draco, prick bobbing between them, swollen and flushed red.

He applied a generous amount of lube then pressed forward until the head of his prick breached Draco's entrance. Draco grunted. Harry stopped there, not just to give Draco a chance to adjust, but also to stave off the orgasm that threatened to overtake him.

"You ok?" he asked, rubbing soothing circles into the small of Draco's back. 

"I _will be_ when you stop dicking around and fuck me already," Draco snapped.

Harry snorted. (Draco was never as vulgar as when he had a hard on; Harry loved being the only one to see this side of him.) He grasped Draco's hips with both hands and _pushed_.

Both men moaned in unison.

"Merlin. You're so tight, so hot. You feel so _good_ ," Harry babbled, head swimming from the exquisite sensation. He thrust again and found himself fully-seated inside the scorching, impossibly tight, velvety softness.

Inside _Draco_.

He couldn't look. He knew if he looked it would all be over. He eased back out and thrust in again, making a strangled noise as his bollocks drew up tight against his body and heat pooled low in his belly, on the cusp of release.

Harry levered Draco upright until they were pressed front-to-back, sweat causing them to slide a bit. He could only thrust shallowly in this position but that was better if he wanted to have any hope of lasting beyond the next five seconds. It also allowed them to snog, which Harry did greedily, and let his hands roam freely across the smooth, hard planes of Draco's chest and abdomen.

Draco reached backwards behind both of them to grab Harry's arse, anchoring himself upright and urging Harry even tighter against him. He whimpered into Harry's mouth when Harry pinched one of his nipples, so of course he did that again. (And again.)

Harry trailed his free hand downward and gripped Draco's prick, tugging it in time with his thrusts. Rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, Harry breathed against Draco's ear and whispered, " _Cum for me._ " He accompanied the request with a hard pinch and Draco cried out, coating Harry's hand with hot, wet seed.

Draco's prick twitched spasmodically and the muscles of his arse clenched down as the orgasm tore through him. Two quick thrusts later and Harry was cumming, too, vision gone dark at the edges from the intensity of it all.

They collapsed to the bed, a hot, panting, sticky, sweaty mess.

Harry clumsily kissed all over Draco's face with lips that felt numb and tingly, stroking and petting his damp hair. Draco nuzzled against Harry's neck and twined their limbs in a somewhat unpleasant embrace (what with all the fluids between them). Not that Harry was going to complain--he valued having his bollocks remain attached to his body, thankyouverymuch. Instead, he cast a gentle cleaning charm on the both of them. And the duvet for good measure.

When his heart stopped feeling like it might beat out of his chest, Harry heaved a great, contented sigh.

"Would you be up for trying that again sometime, do you think?" he asked, dragging his nails lightly across Draco's shoulders.

Draco didn't bother opening his eyes (he'd be asleep within three minutes). "I could be persuaded," he mumbled. Harry grinned beatifically at him, but of course Draco didn't notice.

Harry waved a hand to put out the lights, leaving the fire to bathe the room in its warm, wavering glow. He wordlessly _accio_ 'd a throw blanket from a divan it had decorated and draped it over them. He then tucked Draco into the circle of his arms and settled in for the night. 

He wouldn't fall asleep for a while yet, but that was quite all right.

He was happy.


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speeding some things along at the beginning of this chapter; I apologize if it seems disjointed. Please bear with me.

Harry survived his first dinner at the Manor. And it wasn't nearly as horrible as he'd feared. He received a standing invitation for all future Saturday dinners and he went with Draco more often than not. Though Narcissa remained cool and courteous for the most part, Harry came to appreciate her sharp intellect and subtle sense of humor. And they bonded over trying to humiliate Draco at the dining table (all in good fun, of course).

During their third meal together, Narcissa crossed some invisible line when she revealed that Draco had sucked his thumb until he was six. Draco retaliated by saying that Narcissa liked to belt out Celestina Warbeck ballads while she tended her gardens, and no one was safe from that point on (although they maintained their unofficial rule that all insults must stop by the time dessert arrived so Harry could enjoy his in peace).

Classes carried on as usual and the two men fell into a comfortable routine. The press coverage of their relationship died down as public interest waned--owing to the lack of any further scandals. Of the major news outlets, the Prophet remained staunchly negative while Witch Weekly was surprisingly positive (not all that surprising, according to Draco) with leaked photos of the two of them together frequently gracing its glossy pages. The Quibbler didn't publish anything about their relationship that they didn't explicitly request and Quidditch Quarterly remained silent on the matter except to say the couple been spotted at a Puddlemere United exhibition game (which had turned out to be a disaster).

Harry and Draco didn't spent a night apart except for the 48 hours of the rather spectacular row following that ill-fated match. Oliver Wood had flirted with Harry before taking the field (his exact words had been, "If I'd known you played for both teams, I would have made a pass at you years ago, Harry. Why don't you come out for a pint with me after the game?"). Harry'd been so flabbergasted he hadn't managed to say no before Wood flew off to join his team on the pitch with a shouted, "Think about it!" and Draco stormed out in a strop.

Harry'd chased after him and tried to explain that there was no part of him that had been thinking about taking Wood up on it (obviously!), but when Draco wanted to throw a tantrum, he threw a bloody _tantrum_. Harry got irritated and snapped something about how Draco should be pleased with him for not making a scene in public and Draco'd glared daggers at him and disapparated to who-knows-where. He refused Harry's owls and attempts to call after that so Harry decided to let him sulk until he was ready to apologize for acting like a moody teenager.

That would have been a very long wait were it not for the Longbottoms, who tricked them into being alone in an empty classroom together. The co-conspirators threatened to leave them locked inside until they hashed things out because Harry and Draco both were 'stubborn idiots when wounded pride is involved' (Neville's words). Harry knew better than to think Hannah wouldn't make good on the threat--the Hufflepuff in her couldn't abide anyone she cared about having a drawn-out disagreement.

Go figure, it only took two hours under the threat of infinite imprisonment for him and Draco to stop scowling, start talking, and make up. Actually, the making up lasted the better part of the evening and resulted in Harry walking funny the next day (it even almost made up for how miserable the fight had been. Almost.). They both apologized for being bloody-minded gits--though Draco insisted his initial reaction had been justified. Harry let that slide and promised to immediately deny anyone who made a pass at him in the future. For his part, Draco said he'd give Harry a chance to explain himself if he ever thought he'd been wronged again.

Things had been right peachy since then. Draco even sent the Longbottoms a 'Thank You For Deceiving and Incarcerating Us' fruit basket (the young witch who'd filled the order had been quite uneasy when Draco told her what he wanted written on the card). 

With the winter hols just around the corner, Harry and Draco were busy preparing for their final classes. Draco took cruel delight in crafting the most diabolical questions he could dream up for his exams. He'd been positively gleeful when he devised one with no right answer. Harry'd called him evil and he'd replied, "NEWT-level students should be able to identify a logical impossibility, Harry," like it was perfectly reasonable (but the wicked quirk in his smile told a different story). 

Harry felt so bad for the poor kids who had no idea what they were in for that he'd dropped a few hints in his classes about the more obscure material that was going to be on Draco's tests. Even so, the wretched sods looked like they'd had a run-in with a Dementor as they filed out of the Potions classroom the day of exams. Harry had yet to determine if individuals with evil tendencies were attracted to teaching Potions or if the profession somehow warped a person after the fact. Regardless, he was thankful he'd never have to take another Potions exam and that Draco got most of the evil out of his system in relatively benign ways. It was scary how Snape-like he could be sometimes. 

...

On the last day of the term, Harry got roped into helping Neville situate the greenhouses for the hols.

"I have no idea what to get him for Christmas, Nev," he fretted while carting loose pots to the storage shed. The fairy lights and festive decorations that should have filled him with the joy of the holiday season were glaring reminders that Christmas was upon them and he still didn't have a gift for Draco. "He has literally everything money can buy. I thought about a nice self-inking quill set, but he already has one and it's a rubbish gift, besides. That's something you'd give to your boss, not your boyfriend."

"I'm sure you'll think of something, Harry," Neville answered blithely, hefting a bag of fertilizer over his shoulder. "You've the soul of a romantic."

Even though that was shite advice, it gave Harry an idea. He thanked Neville (for nothing) and rushed out of Greenhouse 3 to begin working on it straight away. Selecting just the right ones would be challenging and time consuming...

\------

Panting for breath, Draco wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, feeling the grit and grime beneath it; he shuddered to think how atrocious he must look.

He and Harry and Harry's borderline senile house-elf had spent all day cleaning Grimmauld Place in preparation for his aunt's arrival that evening. Draco was anxious about meeting her but he sublimated that feeling into vigorous scrubbing,  
using magic and 'elbow grease' (as Harry called hard physical effort for some unaccountable muggle reason) to make the Black estate shine. There were heaps of work left to do, but his aunt and cousin now had serviceable rooms and the kitchen and downstairs sitting areas were neat and tidy, at least.

"Catch," Harry said, tossing him a chilled butterbeer. Draco caught the bottle out of the air and glared at Harry for throwing it rather than handing it to him like a civilized person. Harry blew him a kiss in response, cheeky git.

He unscrewed the cap and took a swig. He didn't particularly care for the beverage (because he was not a man-child like his boyfriend), but he'd worked up a thirst and the coolness, at least, was appealing.

"My aunt does know I'm here, doesn't she?" he asked, suddenly worried Harry was planning to surprise her with Draco's presence and hope for the best.

"'Course she does," Harry answered, coming to stand next to him. He rolled his own bottle across his forehead and held it against his neck to cool himself down. If Draco felt hot, Harry would be burning up; they might have overdone it on the warming charms. But the house was drafty and they hadn't wanted the guests to be uncomfortable.

Draco took another swig, leaning his hip against a newly dust-free chest of drawers. "How did you convince her to see me?"

Harry gave a lop-sided grin."I told her you're fantastic in the sack and that if I could pull this off I'd definitely be getting lucky," he quipped.

Draco flicked his ear.

"Ow! That smarts," Harry griped, rubbing his earlobe. "Bloody wanker."

Draco was unapologetic. "What did you _really_ tell her?"

Harry grabbed the front of Draco's shirt (which was actually _his_ shirt--Draco didn't own anything that was one hundred percent cotton) and reeled him in close. "I told her you are important to me and that I wanted all the people who are important to me together for Christmas," he said quietly, earnestly. His emerald eyes were dazzling.

Draco inclined his head to close the distance between them and took Harry's lips in a kiss, heedless of the smudge of dirt across Harry's nose or the cobwebs in his bushy hair. Harry melted into it, as he often did, and groped Draco's arse with the hand not fisted in his t-shirt.

Draco snaked his hands under Harry's shirt and clutched at his back, angling his pelvis into alignment with Harry's. Harry whimpered when Draco thrust against him and things escalated quickly from there.

Just when Draco was about to push Harry to the ground (because the sofa was much too far; easily ten feet away), he heard a startled gasp from the doorway and what sounded distinctly like a child's "Eeew!"

The men leapt apart like magnets with the same polarity.

With a sinking feeling, Draco turned to find a woman with his mother's features and Bellatrix's coloring frowning at them while shielding the eyes of a young boy who had shockingly blue hair.

He felt ill.

"'Dromeda!" Harry greeted with false brightness in his tone, stepping between him and the woman as if to shield Draco from her disapproval. "You're early!" he said (both observation and rebuke). 

"Teddy was eager to see you," Draco's aunt explained with a pinched expression. The boy squirmed free of her grip and ran into Harry's arms, blue hair changing to black on the way. Harry scooped him up and swung him around in an arc--both of them laughing delightedly through the revolution--before pulling him in for a hug.

"I will be certain to call ahead next time," she muttered, though Draco was the only one who heard.

Propping the boy on his hip so they both could face Draco, Harry introduced him. "Teddy, this is my friend, Draco. Your cousin. He's the one I told you about."

Draco tried for a friendly smile but he was certain it came out as more of a grimace. (He was still partially aroused, for Merlin's sake!)

"I don't think he's your friend, Uncle Harry," Teddy said gravely. "People don't kiss their friends like that."

Harry chuckled and butted heads with him. "Well he _is_ my friend," he retorted, "I also happen to like kissing him."

" _Blech!_ " Teddy made a face of disgust.

"I'm very glad to meet you, Teddy," Draco interjected, offering his hand. "I have been hoping to for some time. You're my only cousin, you know."

Teddy shook his hand like a proper gentleman from his perch on Harry's side. It seemed his aunt had taught him something by way of manners. "I know. You're my only cousin, too. Once removed on my mother's side," he added precociously.

He studied Draco with eyes that had shifted to match Harry's green. Draco couldn't remember noticing what color they had been before. With the way Teddy appeared at the moment, he could easily pass for Harry's son. That thought resulted in some...agitated feelings that Draco chose to leave unexplored for the time being.

"I've seen your artwork in Harry's rooms at Hogwarts," he said. "It's quite good. My favourite is the picture with the dragon."

Teddy's face lit up. "That's my favourite, too! Do you know the story?" he asked excitedly.

Draco glanced at Harry but quickly returned his attention to his cousin. He did not want to squander this chance to develop a rapport with him. "I read about it in the papers but I've never heard your Uncle Harry tell it. He doesn't like telling stories about himself very much," he explained, unsure if Teddy knew that about his godfather. "You must be quite special if he's told the story to you."

Teddy puffed up with pride and looked at Harry with affection so raw it made Draco's chest hurt. He then said earnestly, "You have to tell Cousin Draco the story. He's special, too. That's what you said to grandma."

Draco couldn't decide which part made him happier--Teddy calling him 'cousin' or that Harry had called him 'special.' Either way, he was elated and had to work at subduing his silly grin.

"You're right Teddy, he is special," Harry replied with an easy smile and a heavy look in Draco's direction that caused his insides to squirm. "I guess that means I do have to tell him the story."

Teddy cheered.

Draco couldn't help but notice that his aunt's rigid bearing had softened somewhat during the exchange.

"Before you do," she entreated, "I'd like to have a word with Draco in private, if I may."

Harry looked to Draco for approval; he nodded minutely. "Sure thing," Harry answered then. "Teddy and I can practice our parts for the story."

"And it's all right with you?" she asked Draco conscientiously.

"Of course, Mrs. Tonks," he replied, though his stomach was grinding with apprehension.

"None of that, young man," she admonished. "You are to call me Andromeda, the same as Harry. I am your aunt, after all."

Draco swallowed against the lump forming in his throat. "Yes, ma'am," he said thickly, feeling like he was having a conversation with someone very much like his mother.

They walked out of the parlor, leaving Harry flying a giggling Teddy around the room in a dramatic reenactment of the daring escape from Gringotts.

Draco led them downstairs to the kitchen and set about making tea so he would have something to occupy his hands to keep from fidgeting nervously. 

Andromeda seated herself at the pockmarked and scratched kitchen table that Harry refused to part with because it held some kind of sentimental value. "I owe you an apology," she said without preamble. "Well, two, I suppose, since I showed up unannounced," she amended with a wry grin.

Draco waved that apology away, not wanting to dwell on the awkward matter (or revisit it ever again). He set a kettle to boiling and shook loose leaves into a strainer.

"Harry made me aware of the reason you've been trying to get in touch with me these past few years. I am sorry I didn't let you tell me yourself with your letters," she said sincerely. "I honestly don't know what I thought your intentions were, but I didn't care to find out. Harry informed me I've been acting like a narrow-minded bigot and that that isn't what Ted or Dora would have wanted." She paused, closing her eyes against what was obviously great pain. "It isn't what they died for," she said firmly, though her voice was barely louder than a whisper. "You're family, Draco. You and your mother both. Salazar knows we've got precious little left. I am sorry it took me this long to say, but I would like to get to know the man you've become."

Draco was deeply touched (but if his eyes were watering, it was probably due to the heat of the stove). He cleared his throat. "Thank you, Andromeda," he replied, the words wavering only slightly. "I would like that, as well."

His aunt smiled at him, the expression open and earnest in a way his mother's never was; it was odd seeing features so similar to hers in such a foreign configuration. She sat in companionable silence while Draco prepared the tea and then helped him arrange it on a tray to bring to the parlor when the task was done.  

They returned to discover that Harry had transfigured much of the room into elaborate settings and props. The bookcase had become Gringotts' goblin-works door, the coffee table a pale grey Ukrainian Ironbelly with milky eyes. Teddy had lensless round spectacles to complement his green eyes, and Harry had given himself a goblin's features with an impressively detailed glamour.

Draco and Andromeda had been gone less than ten minutes--the quality and scope of Harry's spellwork was breathtaking. No wonder Teddy liked this story so much.

They squeezed onto the loveseat that had been left for that purpose, Draco balancing the tea service on his lap since the table was otherwise occupied, and settled in to be entertained. After an inauspicious start, the evening was going really quite well.

...and then he remembered how filthy he was. He hadn't even seen himself in a mirror, let alone applied any cleaning charms. Merlin's tits, what a first impression.

But Andromeda seemed unfazed when she lifted her teacup from the tray and thanked Draco for preparing it.

Draco sighed on an exhale.  _They're a strange lot_ , he thought as Teddy led Harry on a raucous dragon chase through the room and Andromeda sipped her tea serenely.  _But they're mine._   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost to the end, folks. Just one or two chapters left after this.


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluuuuff!

Harry had been nervous about the first meeting between Draco, Andromeda, and Teddy because he knew how much it mattered to Draco; truthfully, it was incredibly important to him, too. But he had no reason to worry.

Draco and Teddy got on famously, so much so that Harry was slightly apprehensive about the strong influence of another Slytherin in his life; he would have to step up his Gryffindor game to balance the equation. Merlin knows the child was already a master manipulator--he had Harry wrapped around his little finger and it looked like Draco wasn't far behind (as he was currently helping Teddy build a replica of Hogwarts Castle out of mashed potatoes even though he'd said that young men of refinement weren't supposed to play with their food not five minutes earlier).

Teddy laughed maniacally as he crashed his fork into the potato castle, smashing it to bits, while Draco took cover behind his dinner plate. Harry noticed that Teddy's nose and chin looked pointier than usual, as sure a sign as any that he was equally taken with his cousin.

Harry smiled into his cup and caught Andromeda doing the same. They shared a meaningful glance. He'd been lucky that everyone had responded well to Draco so far. Andromeda had gone out of her way to be considerate and inclusive of him, Teddy was smitten, Neville was wonderful as always, and Draco, for his part, had shown great willingness in burying old hatchets. It would be hard for Harry if antagonism remained between Draco and any of his loved ones. Boxing Day would be the true test for his adoptive family. 

While Ron and Hermione had been incredibly supportive, they hadn't actually spent any time with Draco yet. And Harry had no idea where the senior Weasleys stood on the subject of their ex-son-in-law dating the heir of their generations-long blood feud, who was the direct descendant of the man who nearly killed their daughter, and who had a degree of responsibility in the maiming of two of their sons and the death of a third. ... _Shit._ Maybe it had been a mistake to invite them. Curses might be thrown.

But Harry missed Molly and Arthur. And they had said they'd come over to his to celebrate Christmas since he wasn't going to theirs this year, knowing full well who would be there. That was right kind of them. And they weren't the sort to hold grudges.

Harry decided he shouldn't worry so much--everything would be fine (and if it wasn't, he could always try to convincing Hermione to do some light memory charms). Plus, Boxing Day was still a week and a half out. No sense spoiling today over tomorrow's worries. 

Thus settled, Harry went back to enjoying the antics of two of his favourite people. 

...

During breakfast the next morning, Andromeda suggested that Narcissa and the Malfoy house-elves ought to come over since the rest of the family was there and quite a lot of work needed to be done. Everyone agreed it was an excellent idea and Draco, who was most excited about the proposition, flooed the Manor as soon as the meal was through.

Narcissa arrived twenty minutes later with Mipsy, Luffkins, and two elves Harry hadn't met before in tow. She looked coolly at Andromeda for several pregnant seconds before hurrying over to take her sister in a firm hug, whispering tearful and heartfelt apologies. It was the most uncomposed Harry had ever seen her (and that included the time immediately following Voldemort's demise, and the trials and sentencing of her and her family months afterward). He herded Teddy and Draco out of the room so the women could have some privacy.

He deposited a shell-shocked Draco into a chair in the drawing room, provided Teddy with crayons and a colouring book to keep him occupied, and summoned Kreacher to request strong tea and biscuits for everyone (Molly's go-to solution for any emotionally difficult situation).

The grizzled elf was beside himself over having three descendants of the 'Noble and Most Ancient House of Black' to serve in Grimmauld Place. He was second only to Harry in his enthusiasm over Draco ("A most excellent match for Master Harry!" "Master is not to be putting his elbows on the table or speaking with his mouth full, Lord Malfoy would disapprove." "Master must court Lord Malfoy properly. Kreacher will polish the ceremonial armor." ). He held his stooped back straighter, spoke more formally, and was running himself ragged with all these purebloods in the house, but he seemed happy so Harry didn't comment (even though he really didn't like being referred to as Master Potter, or Master _anything_ really, but Kreacher refused to just call him Harry).

"I have never seen her so emotional, Harry," Draco murmured with awe (and more than a little concern). 

"Maybe I'm rubbing off on her," Harry joked. When Draco raised a scornful eyebrow at him, he changed tacks and tried the empathic approach. "It must be disorienting for you," he said gently, rubbing a hand on Draco's shoulder. "But think how happy you were to connect with Andromeda. How much more would it be for your mum?"

Draco nodded and leaned his head against Harry's arm. Harry combed his fingers through the silky hair at Draco's nape. Teddy hummed timelessly to himself while colouring a race car with rainbow stripes. 

Shortly thereafter, Kreacher returned with a full tea service and an assortment of sweets. Andromeda and Narcissa joined the boys in the drawing room; no one mentioned their red-rimmed eyes. 

Once tears had been dried, tea had been drunk, and biscuits and cakes had been eaten (by Teddy and Harry, mostly, since breakfast had been only a short while ago), everyone set to work. Kreacher waited on the humans' beck and call while the Malfoy house-elves tackled cleaning under Mipsy's squeaky, yet authoritative direction. Draco and Harry were on fairy light duty, Andromeda and Narcissa arranged garlands, and Teddy covered every available surface in multi-coloured tinsel.

After a break for lunch, the motley crew bundled up for a short walk to purchase Christmas trees from a lot down the street (Andromeda loaned Narcissa a pair of trousers and a woolen peacoat so she wouldn't look so conspicuous in the predominantly muggle neighborhood). Harry wanted a tree in every room, but Draco talked him down to one giant noble fir for the living room and two moderately sized Douglas firs--one for his bedroom and one for the drawing room--plus an evergreen wreath for the door. He wanted the whole house to smell like Christmas. 

Upon returning with their haul, Harry gave Teddy and the women free reign over the trees in the living areas while he and Draco went upstairs to decorate theirs. They might have gotten a tad sidetracked at the outset, but the bedroom was made quite festive (after Teddy shouted up the stairs, "What's taking so long? We've been done for ages!").

While the humans decorated, Kreacher and the Malfoy elves teamed up to prepare a veritable feast for dinner. The fun and excitement of the afternoon carried over to cheerful, animated table conversation as everyone stuffed themselves and talked over one another, laughing and sharing stories and carrying on as though it wasn't the first time they'd all sat down to dinner together.

Harry was hopeful it wouldn't be the last.

Pleasantly exhausted, full, and content, he and Draco stayed up long after the others had gone to sleep. They snuggled on the living room couch, drinking Kreacher's excellent hot chocolate and watching the way the light from the fire merged with the twinkling fairy lights and reflected off the tree's shiny ornaments to cast warm, constantly shifting bits of colour around the room.

It had been, by all accounts, a perfect day.


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fluff is seriously off the charts, guys. You've been warned. Also, remember when I said there were 1 to 2 chapters left 1 to 2 chapters ago? Yeah, go ahead and disregard that. I'm a terrible estimator. I think there are now 1 to 2 chapters left, but what do I know.

For the rest of the time leading up to Christmas, Narcissa came to Grimmauld during the day and only returned to the Manor to sleep. Harry offered a guest room to save her the trouble but none were up to her standards (though he suspected the real reason for her refusal was that she needed a bit of quiet solitude after the high intensity, high volume company; it had to be overwhelming after so many years in the Manor's pervasive hush). 

She and Andromeda went on several shopping excursions together and found other excuses to be alone. Their relationship showed signs of strain (awkward silences, hesitant touches, faltering glances), but Harry was happy to see that it was on the mend. Andromeda even introduced Narcissa to some muggle shops she would never have dared enter on her own, and they frequently returned from their outings laden with mystery bags that disappeared into Andromeda's room. Harry learned that at least some of them contained fashionable muggle clothes for Narcissa, who managed to pull off the wealthy London socialite look quite well. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if she came back with a phone number or five in her pocket (not that she'd know what to do with them).

That left Harry and Draco to mind Teddy, which suited them just fine. They took him to the zoo and the park and for the greasy, salty, crispy perfection that is fish and chips (Draco's first foray into the world of newspaper-wrapped street food; he was dubious at first, but Harry made a convert of him) and shopping for Christmas presents for the women.

Draco spoiled him rotten with trinkets and treats every time they went out. Harry's insistence that he didn't need to buy Teddy's affections (because he already had them) and his warnings about upset stomachs and sugar crashes fell on deaf ears, so he left Draco to deal with the consequences when Teddy inevitably had an epic melt-down in the middle of Tesco. Draco was not best pleased with him for his abandonment during the crisis, but he thought twice about it the next time Teddy asked for an extra scoop of ice cream so Harry considered it a lesson learned.

Harry was restlessly eager to give Draco his gift whenever they weren't otherwise occupied with outings and adventures, patience never having been one of his strong suits. Ever the traditionalist, Draco had wanted to wait until Christmas but he negotiated the compromise of exchanging gifts Christmas Eve morning, though he remained insistent on saving everyone else's for the next day.

As far as Harry was concerned, December 24th couldn't come fast enough.

...

Harry woke up just after dawn the morning of Christmas Eve, buzzing with nervous energy. Draco tended to be a late sleeper and there would be hell to pay if Harry dared wake him before he was ready. He chuckled silently, remembering Hogwarts' rather apt school motto. With a parting brush of lips to the top of Draco's head, he rolled out of bed and tiptoed downstairs for a cuppa.

He decided he would wake Draco up at eight. Teddy usually slept 'til nine on non-school days, so that would give them a bit of time without risk of interruption. He cast a tempus charm--6:08. Ok. He could keep himself occupied for two hours, no problem.

By half six, Harry was a jittery wreck. He tried to busy himself with a book from the library but his attention span was completely shot. He went to the living room and rearranged the presents under the tree so that he felt like he was at least doing something Christmassy. It helped a bit.

There was no hiding the fact Draco had purchased Teddy a practice broom. Even wrapped in thick paper, the gift was distinctly broom-shaped. Teddy would be ecstatic; Andromeda less so. Harry would make sure she knew that he and Draco would closely supervise him at all times when he was airborne. Surely with two pairs of eyes on him, she could trust Teddy to be perfectly safe. 

Harry moved his gift for Narcissa to the tidy little pile he'd made of her presents. It was a five-volume collection of Celestina Warbeck's greatest hits. He hoped it would make her laugh. For Andromeda he'd booked a getaway to a day spa that Draco said was nice (he didn't know the first thing about day spas or what made one better or worse than the next; fortunately Draco was an expert in all thing luxurious and self-indulgent). He'd offer to watch Teddy that weekend so she could have the whole time to relax and unwind.

The rest of the presents were a mystery and Harry forced himself not to make guesses based on their shape and weight as he moved the packages around. When they were all displayed to best effect and there was nothing left to arrange, he returned to the kitchen to throw together a fry up to bring as a peace offering when he went to wake Draco. Bacon was sure to lift even the darkest spirits. (He hoped.)

Thirty minutes later and breakfast in hand, Harry finagled Draco's wand out from under his pillow and sent it to the other side of the room so he wouldn't have an opportunity to throw hexes should he awaken in a particularly foul mood. " _Draaaco_ ," he called in a sing-song voice, "time to wake _uuuup_. I have _baaaacon_." He wafted the plate under Draco's nose hoping the smell would entice him to wakefulness. 

Draco grumbled and burrowed deeper under the covers.

"Rise and shine, sleepyhead," Harry urged. "It's time for presents!"

Draco tried blindly to kick at him but Harry was ready for it and dodged easily.

"Come on, grump. Get your lazy arse out of bed. If we get through presents fast enough, we might have time for a quickie before Teddy wakes up," he prodded.

Those were the magic words. Harry smirked as a bleary-eyed and bed-rumpled Draco tossed the covers off and sat up.

"Bacon. Gifts. Sex," he rasped in a sleep-roughened voice, "in that order. Then no one gets hurt."

Harry snorted and deposited the plate in Draco's lap, backing away quickly as one might when feeding a dangerous and wild creature.

Draco's hair was sticking up at odd angles, he had creases on his cheek from the pillowcase, and his eyes were half closed as he tried to glower and eat at the same time. Harry wished desperately for a camera to document the moment.

"Your gifts are under the tree," Draco mumbled after his second rasher of bacon. Harry practically skipped there, grinning all the while.

He really loved Christmas.

Under the tree he found half a dozen good-sized packages from Draco, wrapped with military precision in expensive-looking gold and silver paper. Harry had no idea when or how he'd snuck them in. They certainly hadn't been there when he and Draco had gone to bed and he was pretty sure they weren't there when he woke up that morning. And _six?_ Good grief. "That's too much, Draco!" he objected. "I only got you one thing."

"Open them," Draco prompted, munching a piece of toast. There was a mischievous glint to his eyes that put Harry on high alert. _Could be Wheezes._

Harry did (carefully; he was prepared to throw up a hasty shield charm if he needed to) and soon found himself surrounded by six pairs of shiny, expensive shoes--loafers, oxfords, and low-heeled boots in various shades of black and brown. "You are such a ponce," he said with fond exasperation, lifting the shoes up for inspection. They looked fragile and liable to pinch.

Draco grinned smugly, much more alert now. "I expect my boyfriend to uphold a minimum-level of style. If you want to show your appreciation for my generosity, feel free to bin those awful trainers. Spirit of the season and all that."

"Nice try," Harry chuckled. "But I need to have something to wear when those leather torture devices give me blisters."

Draco frowned and held up his index finger, "Firstly, leather torture devices are not an appropriate Christmas gift." After a beat, "They are traditionally reserved for anniversaries," he delivered with a lecherous wink. Harry snickered.

"Secondly," two fingers and more serious now, "neither Limoges nor Tanino Crisci would ever produce a shoe that would cause blisters. If you do happen to form them, it will be the fault of your inferior feet, not the footwear." Harry rolled his eyes. "Note also that these are your _training_ shoes," he continued pompously. "If you can manage to wear them without ruining them, there will be John Lobb's in your future."

At Harry's blank look, Draco gave a weary sigh. "They produce the world's finest bespoke shoes," he clarified as if burdened by Harry's tremendous ignorance.

Harry shook his head. "Your galleons would be better spent buying a pair of John Whatshisname's for yourself. I am an uncultured Philistine, remember?"

"We are working on that, Harry," Draco dismissed airily. "Starting with your shoes."

"Whatever you say," Harry placated. "But more importantly, are you ready for your present yet?" he asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

Draco gave him an indulgent look and slid out of bed.

Harry did _not_ mind watching him pad to the tree in nothing but his flowy silk pyjama bottoms. He warned Draco against trying to lift the present as it was deceptively heavy.

"A _pensieve_?" Draco asked, pulling the wrapping paper away from the onyx bowl. "It's a rather unusual gift," he commented slowly, "but thoughtful all the same. Thank you." Harry could tell he was disappointed even though his manners were impeccable.

"This one, too," he said, handing Draco the tiny object he'd had hidden in his pocket.

Draco lifted a brow. "I thought you only had one gift," he quipped.

Harry smiled. "It's a package deal."

\------

Draco was intrigued. He carefully peeled back the snowflake-patterned paper to reveal a single glass phial filled with swirling silver wisps.

"Memories?" he said, stunned.

Harry nodded. "Dump 'em in and have a look," he prompted, grinning eagerly.

Curiosity hastening his movements, Draco did as Harry instructed. He leaned his face into the basin and his consciousness tumbled into the vaporous cloud.

He landed with a heavy bump in the stands of Hogwarts' Quidditch pitch. The students around him were in an uproar, cheering, clapping, and shouting at the Seekers zooming by in pursuit of the snitch. With a start, he realized he was one of them. The one in the lead, in fact. Chang was close behind, blue and bronze robes whipping wildly in his tailwind.

Draco remembered this game--fifth year, one of the last he'd ever played. He knew how it ended but it was still exciting to watch as his younger self executed a beautiful Sloth Grip Roll to avoid a Bludger rocketing straight at his head, forcing Chang to take evasive action as it sailed harmlessly over him and directly into her path. Young Draco had no trouble grabbing the snitch uncontested after that. The crowd went ballistic.

Draco noted that those nearest him were mostly groaning and booing. He didn't mind. He scanned the audience for Harry, knowing he must be nearby. He found him two rows down and a little to the right, captivated by the sight of young Draco taking a victory lap, face alight with exhilaration, pale hair gleaming in the sun.

Young Harry quickly caught himself staring and, embarrassed, averted his gaze. But Draco had seen the open appreciation in his eyes before it had been squashed. That's what he had been meant to see.

It was bittersweet, knowing what was in the future for these two boys (who hadn't yet lost their innocence) and how much time and heartache would pass before their unspoken longings would be acknowledged, and ultimately satisfied.  

As Draco spared a moment of pity for his past self, the sounds and colours around him shifted and blurred until settling into the shape of the secret room behind the Erumpent Hunt Tapestry. Draco's throat nearly closed when he realized what this memory was.

His past self was facing him but his eyes were screwed tightly shut, his mouth a grim line. He was holding his left arm out for Harry's perusal. Harry dropped to his knees and smiled softly up at him. He peered at the ugly scar with clinical scrutiny then traced it with his finger tips. Draco saw himself tremble; he was unsure if Harry noticed. It was nothing compared to the way he shook when Harry kissed the thing, proclaiming with his actions that the Mark was neither hideous nor repulsive and that he didn't hate Draco for having it. Both versions of him were filled with gratitude and awe.

The scene shifted unexpectedly again, this time to Draco's bed and their first time together. Strangely, the details of the room seemed out-of-focus while the nude forms moving _in flagrante delicto_ were crystal-clear. Draco realized that Harry didn't have his glasses on and so the memory's formation had been impaired. 

It was an odd sensation, experiencing nearsightedness. He'd known Harry's vision was poor, of course, but this was terrible. No wonder Harry liked to keep his spectacles on sometimes when they, well, did what they were currently doing right in front of him.

Watching as an outside observer was highly erotic but the expressions on his and Harry's faces were almost painfully tender and Draco felt somewhat uncomfortably like a voyeur standing there unbeknownst to the other occupants of the room. He decided, however, that looking on was acceptable since it was his memory anyway (technically, this one was Harry's, but the point remained) and Harry had given tacit permission by including it with the others. So Draco looked. Rather avidly.

All too soon, the image wavered. Draco hoped he would get to spend more time with that memory later. He then found himself in the Potions Classroom as his other self delivered a lecture on the use of Jobberknoll feathers in memory potions. It was a month ago--he'd covered truth serums and memory potions at the end of November.

In contrast to the last one, the edges of this memory were crisp, but everything was overlaid with a strange shimmery, gauzy effect and Harry was nowhere in sight. With a start, Draco realized he must be under the invisibility cloak, per Draco's condition. He'd completely forgotten that Harry had wanted to observe him in the classroom and he had no idea that Harry'd actually done it; he hadn't said a word about it since making the request.

Draco sat back to observe himself, wondering if Harry wanted him to see something in particular or if he was just admitting that he had been there. Draco was pleased to note that he spoke clearly and carried himself well. Indeed, he seemed quite professorial. Then Connor Adams--the most timid of Draco's sixth years--raised his hand to meekly ask if there were any ingredients with similar memory-enhancing properties that didn't require a trip into the Forbidden Forrest to acquire.

Draco had been planning for all of the students to collect feathers the next day, but he'd realized that that would cause undue anxiety for the nervous ones like Adams (he remembered the fear the Forest had once struck into his own heart). He also wanted to reward the boy for speaking up at all--he hadn't spoken aloud the entire first month of school and he was only now beginning to truly participate in class discussions. So Draco made up his mind on the spot to declare the assignment optional and provided an alternative for those who did not wish to do it, although he strongly advised any who were interested in a career in Potions, Healing, or the DMLE to gird their loins and brave the Forest.

Adams--who, Draco knew, dreamed of becoming a librarian (an eminently suitable profession for the boy)--looked like he could have fainted from relief. Draco grinned to think that Harry, wherever he was, was probably making doe eyes at past-Draco for his magnanimity. How fortunate that he had sat in on that class and not the one in which Draco had made Lucinda Cruz cry.

With a jarring lurch, the memory phased into another, this one a morning in Harry's bed at Hogwarts. Grey pre-dawn light filtered in through the open window. Past-Draco was asleep. Past-Harry was not. He gazed at Draco with heart wrenchingly open affection and gently brushed strands of hair off his face. "I love you," he whispered. Past-Draco stirred, but didn't wake. Present-Draco felt hot and prickly all over.

And then his consciousness was suddenly and unceremoniously ejected from the pensieve. He stood for several moments with his head bowed and his hands braced on the bowl, trying to regain his bearings. Sight-seeing through Harry's memories had been mentally and emotionally draining.

When he finally lifted his head, Harry was staring at him--green eyes wide, brows raised, lower lip held between his teeth--in a disarmingly sweet blend of hope and anxiety. Draco knew he was waiting to see how he'd respond to the last memory specifically. It was obvious that the declaration was what all the other memories had been leading up to. It was the point of the entire gift.

Draco sniffed. "That was incredibly soppy," he said dryly.

Harry made an explosive sound somewhere between a choke and a bark of laughter. "You knew what you were signing up for when you agreed to date a Gryffindor, you enormous prat."

Draco's answering grin was broad and unselfconscious. "It's true, I did," he agreed. He peered sideways at Harry and murmured, "And I love you, too--" Harry beamed but Draco wasn't done. "Even though you are nauseatingly sentimental. But you knew that, of course."

Harry snorted. "It's still nice to hear, you hard-hearted bastard."

Draco could give him that.


	48. Chapter 48

Christmas had been everything Harry hoped and more. They opened presents the moment Teddy awoke--he and Harry still in their pyjamas because that was how presents were supposed to be opened (even though certain fuddy-duddies couldn't be persuaded to agree).

Andromeda and Narcissa had loved their gifts from him--Narcissa even chuckled at hers! Draco gave them each pretty hand-painted silk scarves that were well-received. Teddy's broom had been a tremendous hit, of course. Wisely, they saved that one 'til the end; Teddy had wanted to take it out back to try before he'd even finished ripping the paper off and he'd nearly knocked Draco off the couch with his enthusiastic thank you hug/tackle, hair cycling through the entire colour spectrum in his excitement.

Narcissa gave Harry and Draco an enormous box of those amazing French chocolates and a case of wine that Draco said was very good (and very expensive). For Andromeda, she'd purchased a light beige pair of suede gloves that Andromeda had apparently fancied on one of their shopping trips but decided against buying because they weren't very practical. And Teddy was delighted to receive a vibrant picture book of Wizarding fables and fairy tales, the pages of which sprang to life when opened. He'd made Narcissa tear up when he said, "Thank you, Auntie 'Cissa," with all the sweetness he possessed (which was a considerable amount).

Teddy opened his gift from Harry--a crate of assorted Wheezes--with impish glee. Andromeda gave Harry a stern look for that one but he assured her that they were perfectly harmless (mostly). His gift from Andromeda--a simple wooden train set--was met with less enthusiasm, but would have a longer shelf-life for enjoyment. 

Teddy's gifts to everyone were painted pictures that Andromeda had had professionally mounted and framed. Draco got his very own dragon--a white one with icy blue eyes flying over a forest of spiky green trees. Narcissa's was of a turquoise vase overflowing with purple, pink, and yellow flowers of indistinct origin. Harry's painting was stick-man versions of him and Teddy holding hands in front of the giraffe--Teddy's favourite non-magical animal--enclosure at the zoo. He secretly thought his was the best, but that would be rude to say, so he settled for gushing over it (as Draco and Narcissa both had done with theirs) while Teddy beamed with pride.

After presents, everyone went outside to watch Teddy try out the broom. Since it had been his gift, Draco got the honor of teaching him the basics. Teddy listened intently, hair shifting from white-blond to neon blue and back again like it couldn't make up its mind about what colour best represented his joy.

All three onlookers held their breath (and their wands) when Teddy left the ground for the first time, broom wobbling alarmingly beneath him. But Draco calmly coached him through steadying it and soon Teddy was zooming around the small yard to the mixed worry and amusement of his audience.

Draco crunched through the slush to stand next to him and snuck his gloved hand into Harry's. Harry gazed softly at him, filled with unspeakable warmth and affection, before returning his attention to his exuberant godson who was careening through the pergola at that moment. He made a note to brush up on his first aid spells--odds were good they'd need them before the hols were done.

When the bitter cold finally chased them inside (poor Teddy's fingers were practically frozen to the broom handle), they were met by the mouthwatering aroma of the huge breakfast Kreacher and Mipsy--who usually accompanied Narcissa to Grimmauld and made herself useful as she was able--had prepared. They gorged themselves on hot drinks and warm food until the last of the cold had been forgotten. Then they lazed the rest of the day away together, as Christmas was meant to be celebrated.

\------

Draco awoke the 26th of December with a pit in his stomach that, unfortunately, couldn't be attributed to the overindulgences of the day previous.

Up to that moment, Christmas at Grimmauld Place had been the best Draco had ever experienced, far surpassing even those of his generally happy childhood in the Manor. He feared that the unparalleled joy of the last several days would soon come to an end with the arrival of Harry's surrogate family.

It wasn't that Draco had anything against the Weasleys--he hadn't for many years. But they had plenty of reasons to despise _him_ and he wasn't looking forward to facing what he expected to be a tense, uncomfortable afternoon.

But it was important to Harry. And for Harry, Draco would do, well...it didn't bear thinking on. (The answer-- _absolutely_ _anything_ \--made him uneasy).

...

The Weasley matriarch practically burst into tears the moment she laid eyes on Harry. She enveloped him in an oppressive hug, nearly suffocating him in her ample bosom, then held him out at arms' length for a critical inspection. He submitted to her manhandling like a rag doll. "Look at you," she tutted, frowning. "Skin and bones. Don't they feed you anything at that school?"

"Of course they do, Molly," Harry smiled. "This is just the way I look." ( _Which there is nothing wrong with_, Draco thought, feeling defensive on Harry's behalf.)

"Never you worry, dear," she consoled, ignoring Harry's comment but finally releasing him. "I brought enough leftovers to feed a small army." She held up a large quilted bag that ostensibly contained the aforementioned field rations.

Draco was mildly offended as the gesture seemed to imply that Harry's skills as a host were lacking (when, in actuality, he was an excellent host, in Draco's expert, if somewhat biased opinion).

"Harry, my boy. Good to see you," Weasley Senior greeted, quiet and unassuming. He pumped Harry's hand in a firm shake.

"It's good to see you, Arthur," Harry echoed, expression fond.

Weasley Senior turned to Draco then. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced," he said charitably, extending his hand to Draco. "Arthur Weasley."

"Draco," he answered, shaking the callused hand and dispensing with formalities for Harry's sake. "It is a pleasure to meet you properly, Mr. Weasley. Mrs. Weasley," he nodded to the robust woman regarding him from her husband's side.

"Hello, Draco," she said with reservation, though not unkindly.

The Floo flared to life behind them, disgorging the missing two-thirds of the Golden Trio. Harry burst into a wide grin and greeted them enthusiastically.

Weasley pulled Harry into a manly one-armed hug, replete with several vigorous thumps on the back. "I haven't decided if you're stupidly brave or if you've totally lost the plot with this little party," he 'whispered' (about as covertly as Teddy might), "but if things get too heated, give me a signal. I've got an ace in the hole tonight." Weasley smiled broadly while Harry looked questioningly at him. ( _Honestly, Harry_ , Draco darted a glance at Granger's midsection, _can you really be_ that _clueless?_ )

Granger gave Harry a hug of her own and Weasley and Draco appraised each other warily. He was taller than Draco remembered, broader, too. His ginger hair was longer than was strictly professional for an Auror, but he looked otherwise put together. His expression remained dubious so Draco took the initiative and strode over, offering his hand in peace. "Weasley," he said.

Weasley looked at it for a moment as if unsure what to do, but ultimately he shook it and replied, "Malfoy."

"Ms. Granger-Weasley," Draco nodded, extending the greeting to her as well.

"Please call me Hermione," she said evenly, shaking his hand at least as firmly as her brawny husband had. Brown eyes bright and clever, wild hair tamed into a slick bun, dressed sharply in a business-like (but flattering) aubergine suit, it was immediately apparently that the former top of their class had grown into a formidable woman. Draco was struck with the certainty that she was a force to be reckoned with both within the Ministry and outside of it. 

It was strange to think that of the three of them, it was the Weasleys, not Harry, who had established themselves in powerful and prestigious careers with positions of authority. Not that there was anything wrong with teaching at Hogwarts (it would be quite hypocritical of Draco to hold such an opinion), but it wasn't what one would expect from Harry or the others knowing the roles they each had played in the war.

Or maybe that was just the way it seemed to someone who had only seen them from a distance.

Granger interrupted his musings. "If you have a minute later, Draco, I was wondering if I could consult with you on a matter for work."

"About what topic, may I ask?" he inquired cautiously.

"How familiar are you with fairy dust?" she said by way of reply.

Draco's hackles immediately went up. "I am unclear as to why you think I have any familiarity with recreational drugs," he answered tightly. Next to him, Harry tensed.

Granger frowned. "Because you are a Potions Master and therefore have a significant amount of experience with and knowledge of potentially hazardous substances," she responded matter-of-factly. 

 _Oh_. Draco felt the fool for assuming insult where none had been implied.

"I am not sure if you're aware," she continued, "but fairy dust is currently unregulated. The Ministry is considering changing that in light of a recent spate of incidents involving individuals under its influence. I was hoping to hear your opinion on how it ought to be classified and whether it should be listed as a controlled substance given its euphoric and hallucinogenic properties."

Draco suspected this was an olive branch of sorts. There were plenty of individuals within the Ministry with whom Granger could consult; that she was asking Draco his opinion was an attempt at bridge-building. "I am not overly familiar with the drug itself," he admitted, "but I have some knowledge about its base ingredients that I would be happy to share with you." He hoped his cordiality would be enough to repair the damage he'd done before the afternoon had even gotten underway.  _Salazar_ , it was like walking through a Death Eater safe house (notorious for their vicious--and usually lethal--curses and traps).

Granger gave a partial smile. "I would appreciate that."

Draco internally celebrated the small victory.

"Let's move this party to the living room," Harry interjected. "Draco, can you round up the rest of our guests?" To the others he said, "They're outside watching Teddy fly on his new practice broom; it was Draco's Christmas gift to him. We can hardly separate him from the thing, he loves it so much," apparently unable to resist bragging a bit (to Draco's gratification).

The all assembled in the shadow of Harry's ridiculously large Christmas tree. Unnecessary but socially-required introductions were made. Teddy's presence, with his youthful exuberance and uncommon good nature, was a boon for all involved.

Weasley insisted the Wireless be on so he could keep abreast of the various Boxing Day quidditch matches. Though Draco thought the custom boorish, it served to obscure potentially awkward silences and gave them a safe topic for conversation.

Harry had gifts for the Weasleys, and they him. He gave Granger a handsome yet practical briefcase that she adored. To Weasley, Chuddley Canons season tickets (which had been bargain priced as the team was currently worst in the league, no surprise there). Granger's gift to Harry was a book on the history of Defense Against the Dark Arts as a unique area of study. Draco thought the likelihood of Harry actually reading it was low but he acted grateful anyway. Weasley's gift--a bottle of Ogden's black label, special reserve--was much more likely to be enjoyed.

Harry gave the elder Weasleys a charming vintage cake-stand and a muggle device that looked like a whisk but ran on electricity and was somehow related to baking. Draco didn't understand how they would make use of it (or why they would want to), but Mr. Weasley in particular seemed delighted.

Draco thought back on all the gifts Harry had purchased that year and realized that every single one had been adored by its recipient. The man was uncannily skilled at giving presents. Draco, being rather a fan of receiving them, was pleased with this unexpected aptitude of Harry's and looked forward to benefiting from it in the future.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Weasley produced from her bag a large, lumpy present wrapped in plain brown paper. Inside was a jumper, bright red with the Hogwarts H done in urine yellow in the center of the chest. "I love it!" Harry proclaimed (somehow unironically) and put the monstrosity on straight away.

"I have a little something for you, as well, Draco," she said, catching Draco completely by surprise and handing him a lumpy package of his own. He felt guilty for not having a gift in return and he dreaded feigning gratitude for whatever crime against fashion (and humanity) was inside.

As he reluctantly opened the package, Mrs. Weasley explained, expression uncertain, "I didn't know if you were one for jumpers, but I figured a person can't have too many scarves." Draco unrolled an attractive pale blue scarf in soft angora wool. "Harry told me you were partial to blue," she added, mistaking his surprise for disdain.

Draco gave a small but genuine smile. "Thank you," he said sincerely, imitating Harry and putting the scarf on (even though it was too warm in the house to wear it for long). "It's lovely, truly. I am sorry I don't have anything for you; I wasn't expecting to exchange gifts today."

"Nothing to worry about," Mrs. Weasley waved off his apology, apparently satisfied by his reaction. She then bustled over to dote on Teddy, who was only too happy to show off his new treasures.

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco noted that the male Weasleys seemed begrudgingly impressed, while Harry grinned over Draco conducting himself with basic manners. He would have to continue to prove to all them that he was capable of civility. One holiday wouldn't be enough to convince them, but it was a place to start.

...

The rest of the day went about as well as one could hope, given the circumstances. Mother gamely made conversation with Mrs.  
Weasley, finding a shared interest in horticulture. Harry tried to act as a relational buffer, while Teddy fulfilled the same function without trying. Granger made a concerted effort to engage with Draco and Weasley seemed to put most of his effort into tolerating his presence.

Aunt Andromeda and Mr. Weasley were the most impartial out of everyone; the latter even asked Draco several questions about his experience at Hogwarts that year and seemed genuinely interested in Draco's responses. He could see why Harry liked the man--his mildness and warmth were soothing and he possessed a keen and curious mind.

Draco was unsurprised when, near the end of the meal, Granger and Weasley shared a meaningful glance and announced to the room that they were expecting. The news was met with cheers, tears (mostly from Mrs. Weasley), and hearty congratulations.

Harry was obviously delighted for his friends but Draco also saw the not-so-obvious longing that shadowed his smile. He slid through the press of hugs and well-wishes to station himself next to Harry and surreptitiously gave his hand a squeeze.

Harry looked at him, expression complex. "It's brilliant, isn't it?" he asked, voice layered with emotion.

"Yeah, it is," Draco answered simply. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is definitively one chapter left after this. 
> 
> Oh boy.


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a hard time making myself write this chapter. Endings are bittersweet.

According to the custom, Draco and Harry rung in the New Year as they meant to go on. While their celebration may have been more ambitious than they'd be able to duplicate with any regularity (Harry's bad shoulder ached for days afterward and how those mysterious footprints had appeared on the wall was rather difficult to explain to the troublingly observant six-year-old who had noticed them), the principle was what mattered.

In fact, their lovemaking had been so frequent over the winter holiday that Draco had seen fit to pay a visit to his lab at Hogwarts to brew a new batch of lubricant, as his current supply was running dangerously low (especially after having returned to their abandoned game of strip snap, the record for which was currently 4-3, in Draco's favor).

And that is when Severus found him.

"I see you persist in this madness, Draco," he derided, eyeing the distinctive contents of Draco's cauldron.

Draco smirked. "If this is madness, sanity is overrated," he retorted (rather pleased with himself).

Severus scoffed but, mercifully, dropped the subject.

Because it had been some time since they last spoke, they chatted pleasantly about all the castle gossip Draco had missed in his absence. 

...

In the years that followed, it became a tradition for Harry to give Draco a handful of pensieve memories on Christmas Eve. He always included an erotic one (because he knew what Draco liked) and a grand romantic gesture (because he was a Gryffindor and couldn't help himself).

Their second Christmas, the memories began with one of Harry wanking in the shower--Draco's name was on his lips and he was obviously putting on a show for his intended audience. It was impossibly sexy.

Draco resigned himself to viewing the rest of the memories with an unrelenting erection and hoping that Harry planned on doing something about it when they were through.

After several more scenes--ranging from the mundane to the poignant, some funny, others tender, and all of them precious--the memories finished with Harry seated in a tattoo parlor and Draco's heart rate spiked again.

When he pulled out of the pensieve, his darling idiot was shirtless with a crooked smile and a large red bow affixed to his left pectoral. Beneath it was an image with which Draco was well aquatinted: a serpentine constellation of basic black dots connected by thin lines in a style reminiscent of Harry's other tattoos (that fact alone was almost as touching as the symbol).

"C'mere and feel it," Harry said suggestively.

Draco snorted. "If you wanted me to grope you more, all you had to do was ask," he drawled. 

Harry rolled his eyes and tugged him closer by the hand, which he then used to trace the ink himself. Draco sucked in a breath when elaborate white lines that hadn't been visible before materialized around the black, revealing the shape of a fully-formed dragon. It arched its sinuous spine and flicked its tail under Draco's touch, startling a laugh out of him.

"I didn't want Sparky to be lonely," Harry smirked, eyes shining.

"How many times must I tell you not to call it Sparky?" Draco huffed in exasperation, but his annoyance dissolved when Harry turned him by the shoulder and hugged him from behind. In addition to Harry's wonderfully strong arms around his middle, stubbly jaw against his neck, and pelvis on his arse (rather enough to calm his ire, in and of itself), he felt the slight tickle of his tattoo stirring as Harry's pressed into it and he realized that they were intended to be a matched set. Damned if the sheer volume of saccharine sentimentality wasn't enough to overpower even Draco's most Slytherin snark.

The Christmas after that featured a memory of Harry at Gringotts adding Draco's name to the deed for Grimmauld Place. "It would have gone to you anyway if not for me," he'd shrugged, downplaying the magnitude of the gift and the level of commitment it represented.

There was also his wide-eyed delight over Draco's corporeal patronus. Draco had forbidden him from saying one word about the form it took (a lion, of all things, decidedly shaggy in the mane; highly unbecoming of a self-respecting Malfoy) and he had resolutely denied all of Harry's efforts to discover the happy memory that had produced it, though it wasn't hard to guess who figured prominently in it.  

The erotic memory that year had been a tender one. Stollen kisses on the living room couch while Teddy slept upstairs. Draco had been eager to get his hands on Harry (privacy had been hard to come by with Teddy spending the whole summer with them). "Do you trust me?" Harry'd whispered.

 _Absolutely and completely,_ Draco's mind supplied in answer.

" _Why?_ " he'd asked aloud, eyes narrowed in skepticism.

"I have an idea," Harry replied, expression intent, "but you have to trust that I won't let you get hurt." 

Draco felt a thrill race up his spine and nodded, thinking Harry meant to play with bonds and control as he had been known to do on occasion. He had not expected him to conjure a flame in his open palm. Panic immediately licked at the edges of Draco's composure, sending his pulse rate skyward and causing his breath to come in shallow pants.

"I am fully in control of the fire," Harry reassured, voice low and soothing. "Watch." It was extinguished in a blink. "I want you to focus on me and how good I'm going to make you feel and ignore the flames. They won't hurt you, I promise." The flames popped into existence again, flickering harmlessly in Harry's hand. Draco could feel their heat and his stomach churned at the sensation.  

He was torn. He longed to be free of the humiliating phobia (Harry's goal, he was sure) but he didn't know if he could do what Harry asked.

Ultimately, his trust won out over his fear--it was Harry who had saved him from the fire, after all, and he was more than capable of controlling a bit of conjured flame. So Draco allowed Harry to lay him out on the cushions of the couch and kiss and touch and stroke him until he was insensible to all else. Magic fire, included.

After a great many sessions that were simultaneously sensual and terrifying, and which mirrored the occlumency lessons that had helped so much with Harry's nightmares, Draco was able to tolerate open flames of any kind (though they still made him uneasy).

The real test was the bonfires of Beltane at the start of the following summer. Draco spent the night reveling under the stars for the first time since his childhood. It helped that Harry had lain with him in the grass, reminding him of their practice and celebrating the fertility aspect of the holiday. If Draco were the sort to keep memories in a pensieve, he might have saved that one.

(He did.)

The Christmas after that, Harry had proposed. His gift to Draco had been a brief memory of him in a jewelers, deliberating over a glass display case. When Draco had lifted his head from the bowl, the soppy fool had been on bended knee, black velvet ring box open in his hand, expression pathetically anxious as if Draco would say anything other than, "Yes. A thousand times yes, you idiot."

The Quibbler had scored another profit-boosting windfall with their exclusive exposé on the extremely private ceremony that followed, since Luna had stood with Pansy and Blaise, opposite Harry's 'groomsmen,' Neville, Hermione, and Ron.

To this day, Draco was astounded by how dear a friend the woman he used to call Loony had become. She was still peculiar, of course, but it was part of her charm. She was also intelligent and gentle and patient and kind in a way Draco had learned was exceedingly rare and to be valued most highly. Truth be told, he felt that way about all of the people who had celebrated with them that day, the unlikeliest assortment of friends and loved ones outside of Merlin and his muggles. 

This year, because Draco was hopelessly in love (and couldn't help himself), he had some memories of his own to share. One, in particular, was of utmost importance.

\------

Harry closed his eyes and shook his head twice, trying to reestablish his equilibrium after the dizzying transition into the next of Draco's memories.

He still couldn't believe his cranky, cynical husband, who teased him mercilessly over the 'mawkish' and 'schmaltzy' tradition (even though he obviously loved it), had contrived to return the gesture. Harry had adored every minute of it so far; the memory of the two of them reenacting one of his teenage fantasies in Hogwarts' Quidditch locker room had been particularly riveting.

He opened his eyes to find himself in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place. Draco and Teddy were making chocolate biscuits for him, following his favourite of Molly's recipes. The memory was from just a few days ago. The biscuits had been terrible--burned and oddly salty--but Harry had eaten every one, so touched was he by the effort his boys had made on his behalf.

Teddy dumped flour into the bowl and casually asked, "Now that you and Harry are married, do you think you'll want kids?"

Draco peered at him a long moment before answering vaguely, "Someday."

The truth was, he and Draco had talked quite a bit about it lately, but they hadn't yet settled the matter except for agreeing that they wanted to be parents.

"There's a boy in my class," Teddy said haltingly, keeping his focus on the ingredients because they were less threatening than Draco's penetrating stare (Harry knew that from experience). "He's adopted. His first mum didn't want to raise him, so his mum and dad adopted him when he was a baby. He's black and they're white but nobody cares that he doesn't look like them, he's their kid and they're his parents..." Teddy trailed off and swallowed. "Do you think that's what you and Harry will do?" he turned wide grey eyes on Draco. "Adopt?"

"Maybe," Draco replied, stirring the batter with a wooden spoon. "It's certainly an option."

Teddy looked pensive.

"What's on your mind, Ted?" Draco gently pressed.

Teddy's formerly platinum hair turned flat black. "I know you're my cousin and Harry's my godfather, but do you think you guys would ever consider adopting me?" he begged plaintively, all in a rush. Harry sucked in a sharp breath, eyes stinging. "I mean, I'll be going to Hogwarts next year so we could see each other all the time and then maybe I could spend the hols with my gran and it wouldn't be that different from how things are now."

Draco carefully set the bowl aside and placed both hands on Teddy's shoulders. He leaned down until they were at eye level and pronounced, "There is no one in the world more important to me than my family," making Harry's heart constrict with love and pride. "That's you, Harry, and my mother most of all." Teddy's lip quivered.

Draco continued, "I am so honored that you would ask this of me; I know that Harry will feel the same. It is a big decision and something we all need to talk about, your grandmother included, but the most important thing for you to know is that I love you and will never stop loving you, no matter what."

Draco then folded Teddy into a hug and Harry's tears flowed freely. The memory ended abruptly and he was face-to-face with his Draco, once again.

"You beautiful, wonderful man," he said roughly, pulling Draco into a hard embrace. "How did I ever get so lucky to have you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Draco responded, voice muffled by his hair, "you've always been lucky. It's part of the reason you were so insufferable in school."

Harry chuckled against Draco's prominent collarbone and basked in the overwhelming affection that he felt, allowing his emotions to settle enough for him to think somewhat rationally about the situation.  

After a few minutes, he pulled back to look Draco in the eye. "Even assuming Andromeda is in favor of the idea, I don't want to presume to replace Remus," he said earnestly.

"You never could," Draco replied. "And that is not what Teddy's asked either of us to do."

Harry thought about his words and judged them fair, but..."Do you _want_ to do it?"

Draco scoffed. "Do you really think I would have a broached the subject with a bloody pensieve memory if I didn't want to do it?"

Joy, brilliant white and boundless, shimmered through Harry.

"It _was_ rather nauseatingly sentimental of you," he grinned.

Draco flicked him on the end of his nose.

...

All was well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy Moly. I wrote this fic over the span of three months. Incredibly, many of you have been along for the whole ride. (Those of who were late to the party are no less appreciated for it!) I can't tell you how grateful I am for all of you who offered kudos and comments of encouragement along the way. This was a huge undertaking--the total word count is just about the same as Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. Yowza! 
> 
> When I started out, I didn't have a clear plan in mind and I thought the whole fic would be 12 chapters or so. Boy was I wrong. These characters took on a life of their own. Though it is hard to say goodbye to them now, it helps to be leaving them in such a good place. 
> 
> I am pleased with how this not-so-little story turned out. I hope you are, too.
> 
> You have been lovely, truly. 
> 
> <3 Playout


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